


Revenge Omens

by IneffableToreshi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Revenge, Revenge Omens, Reverse Omens, So much angst, angel killer, heaven are dicks, hell are dicks too obviously, like just a ton of massive pain, phanuel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-27 19:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21397303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableToreshi/pseuds/IneffableToreshi
Summary: Post-Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley should finally be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of their labour. The Universe has other plans.In an incredibly unexpected turn of events, Aziraphale Falls, Crowley Rises, and each are told that the other has been destroyed. Pain and misery ensue. Crowley struggles through his continued existence, working to honour his angel's memory in any way he can. Meanwhile, Aziraphale, upon escaping decades of torture at Hell's hand, has his own thoughts on how to honour his demon's memory, and it's not going to be pretty. Not at all.Warnings for a dark tale with lots of angst, pain, and suffering (but because I'm me, there will likely be a 'happy' ending...we'll just have to see how it goes).This is a Reverse/Revenge story based on the wonderful artwork of Masao Micchi - check her out on Instagram and give her some love! https://www.instagram.com/masao.sketch/
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 339
Kudos: 421
Collections: Tip Top Stories





	1. Farewell, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to write this fic since the first time I stumbled across Masao Micchi's Instagram and saw her 'Revenge Omens' sketches of Demon Aziraphale and Angel Crowley (check out her Instagram! https://www.instagram.com/masao.sketch/). I stewed with the idea for a while until finally deciding to message Masao and see if she would mind me actually attempting the story. Her response was a very emphatic exclamation of squealing noises, and so here we are!
> 
> Most of what I've written for Good Omens so far has been pretty pleasant, but normally I'm a huge sucker for massive amounts of angst and pain and suffering, sooooo....be prepared.
> 
> This first chapter is more of a prologue than anything that shows how we get to the point where the the story truly begins. I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think! If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!
> 
> Anyway, enough of that nonsense! Enjoy the first chapter of Revenge Omens!

Looking back, the other shoe was bound to drop eventually. He just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. 

The demon known as Crowley had spent hundreds of human lifetimes knowing, deep down in what passed for his heart, that he had no right to anything as pure as happiness. For all his bluster and talk of "sauntering vaguely" the plain and painful truth was this: he was Fallen. How he'd come to that point hardly mattered. It all came down to simple facts: he had been expelled from Heaven, cut off from God's grace, and was a damned, miserable thing that did not deserve even the most pathetic spark of joy. From the moment his battered, broken form contacted boiling sulfur for the first time, he'd believed, deep in the blackened husk of his soul, in this one irrefutable truth. 

Aziraphale had made him consider otherwise. 

Sweet, angelic Aziraphale, who had been on Earth with Crowley since the Beginning. Hereditary enemies, designed to hate and destroy one another, and yet… Aziraphale was different from other angels. The Principality had looked at Crowley, had seen the demonic presence burning all around him, and instead of smiting, he'd smiled. 

It may not have happened immediately - and certainly there had been more than a few bumps in the road - but as the two traversed the whole of human history, bumping into one another with greater and greater frequency as the ages went on, they had become friends. By the time the Apocalypse was well and truly cancelled, they'd become something...more. Crowley wasn't entirely certain what that something was, but…

"You look so _ serious_, my dear! Is the wine not to your liking? I could miracle us up some scotch! Though, I'm feeling a bit tipsy, so it might materialize as a rather questionable moonshine." 

Aziraphale burst into a series of giggles that soon had him setting down his own glass for fear of making a mess of himself. Even in the throes of drunkenness, the angel had enough presence of mind to protect his precious clothes. 

Crowley took in the scene before him and felt something in his chest shift. It was a lovely, mild night in St James park. There was a large, tartan-print blanket spread out on the most comfortable bit of grass, and a picnic basket that miraculously never ran empty of Aziraphale's favorite treats. A thought from Crowley kept any wandering humans (or ducks) at a distance, and a particularly naughty move from the angel (performed some time after the third bottle of wine) had a temporary power outage in the area taking care of the light pollution of the city. The moon was full and the stars were particularly gorgeous. It was, quite possibly, the most perfect night Crowley had ever experienced in his long existence. 

What _ truly _ made it perfect, however, was the angel himself, sitting mere inches away from the demon. The angel with his soft corporation and cheerful face, cheeks pink from overindulgence. The angel with his stodgy, stuffy clothes, immaculately preserved despite being nearly two hundred years old. The angel with his fluffy, cloud-like hair, his bright, sky-blue eyes, and a smile that made humans feel warm and happy for just being in his presence. 

The angel, Aziraphale, who was Crowley's oldest, dearest friend and the only thing that made his existence worth living. 

"Wine's fine, angel," Crowley insisted with a soft smile. "Just thinking is all."

Aziraphale's giggles had tapered off, so he lifted his glass again and took another generous drink. His 'tipsiness' (call a spade a spade; the angel was nearer to soused than anything else) had the demon's smile expanding. "Nothing too gloomy, I hope," the angel mock-scolded. "I'll be rather cross if you let yourself get all contem-...contom-...comtem-...?...all mopey, when we're having such a lovely evening." He tipped his glass again and glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. The crooked little smile on his lips made the thing in Crowley's chest flutter again. 

"No, angel, nothing gloomy, I promise," said Crowley as he ran a finger along the rim of his own glass. "I was actually just thinking, you know…" He allowed himself a pause and a breath, and used the moment to remove his sunglasses and set them down on the blanket beside the growing collection of empty wine bottles. "I was thinking that, now that the Apocalypse has been shut down and we're on Our Side and all...there's something I'd really like to try. Something I've been wanting to try for a really long time, in fact. And I suppose I'm hoping that you'll indulge me."

If Aziraphale had any inkling as to what Crowley was thinking he didn't let on. He did, however, place his glass down again and shift his body so that he was sitting more comfortably, facing the demon. The breeze made his white curls bounce playfully about his head. His smile was positively infused with all the beauty of Heaven and Earth combined. "I would be more than happy to help you out, my dear!" he said, and Crowley could hear the sincerity in his voice. "As you say, we're on Our Side now, and I want nothing more than to indulge my dearest…"

_ Friend. _ That should have been the end to Aziraphale's sentence, but he didn't say the word and gave no indication that he'd ever _ intended _to say the word. Therefore, the somewhat-more intimate feel of the sentence had Crowley leaning forward, hopeful. 

"It's just that-" The demon scooted closer, straightened up a bit so that his serpentine eyes captured the angel's Heavenly blue ones. "I don't know if you- That is, I feel like I've been pretty damned obvious, but- And maybe this isn't really the time, I know, but it's been on my mind a lot lately and-"

Aziraphale had leaned closer. His smile had gone from the kind one adopts while in the more pleasant stages of drunkenness to something much more knowing, much more expectant and even excited. It was possible he'd sobered up a bit while Crowley was stumbling through his fractured thought process. 

"Crowley, dearest." His voice was barely a whisper, yet it had a commanding nature to it that choked off Crowley's rambling right at the source. "I understand," he said, then added, "and I most definitely think that this_ is _ the time." He reached forward, slow and gentle, and placed one warm, soft hand on Crowley's knee. "I think you've waited quite long enough, don't you?"

The something in Crowley's chest wiggled and leapt. Every demonic instinct in him tried to fight back at once, working to pull him away, to do or say something to destroy the moment. It was like a living, writhing thing, squeezing him around the throat and hissing into his ear: _ You don't dessserve thisss...don't you even dare think for a moment that you dessserve thisss…You’re a demon, a wretched, disgusssting, evil thing, and that’sss all you’ll ever be... _

But for the first time since he'd Fallen, Crowley looked that writhing, poisoned thing square in the eye and told it, quite soundly, to _F__uck Right Off_. 

As his long, trembling fingers reached out to caress Aziraphale's cheek, the demon told himself, stubbornly: _ I do deserve this. I do. _

_ I do... _

The angel's lips tasted of all things sweet and kind in the world and was everything Crowley had ever dreamt of in the course of six thousand years. The stars in the night sky were dim and lacklustre compared to the stars that burst into life within the demon's heart as his angel's hands found their way to Crowley's arms, shoulders, up into his hair. This kiss could have given birth to an entirely new Universe, and the demon wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. It was everything, _ everything _ he'd ever wanted, would ever want, could ever need. 

Anthony J. Crowley, demon of Hell, tempter of the Original Sin, Serpent of Eden, was _ happy _.

His eyes had fluttered closed - 

_ How disgustingly romantic... I really have gone native… _

\- so the little gasp seemed, at first, to certainly be a pleasant sound. Aziraphale had kissed back, had tangled his fingers in the demon's hair and lovingly stroked the back of Crowley's neck, so the gasp was surely a wonderful noise, a desperate little intake of air after having the breath thoroughly knocked from his lungs by a magical moment. 

But then the angel's fingers clenched the lapels of Crowley's jacket, tight enough to be worrisome, and that one little gasp became a series of gasps that, together, sounded an awful lot like panic. 

Crowley opened his eyes and felt the heart he'd been certain was burning beautifully in his chest crumble to dust in an instant. 

Aziraphale's bright blue eyes gazed back at him, wide and filled with fear and pain as a thick, black substance oozed from them to stream like rotted blood down his pale cheeks. "Crowley…?" His lips barely moved to speak the name. His voice was a terrified plea. His entire body was trembling.

Crowley's hysteria was a visceral thing. It coiled around his heart and lungs, dug it's fangs into his throat and ripped him apart without a second thought. His shaking hands scrambled to hold onto his angel, desperately grabbing at his beloved coat, fingers curling into the fabric so forcefully he heard it tear. "No!" the stricken wail escaped him. "No, no, no! This can't-! Please-! Please, no!"

Aziraphale tried to speak, but a gruesome scream was pulled from his lips instead as his wings were forcibly ripped into the Earthly plane. Feathers flew about them like a snow storm, torn from their homes in the violence of the moment, and as they fell to the picnic blanket around them each one burst into an individual pillar of flame. 

Crowley's vision swam before him. It couldn't be, it _ couldn't _! He threw himself at Aziraphale, wrapping long, strong arms around the angel, holding him as close as they could possibly get. "I won't let you go!" he cried over the hissing of the little flashes of flame all around them. "Aziraphale, I swear, I won't let you go!" He could feel the angel's body heaving beneath his grasp as sobs wracked him. 

"Why?" Aziraphale wept, tears mixing with ichor to spill disgusting black stains down the angel's pale skin. "I d-don't understand! P-please, Crowley-!"

"_I won't let you go!_" the demon screamed. He could feel the heat now, rising up through the ground beneath them. Sulfur filled his nose and sparked against his skin. The flames from the burning feathers crept closer, threatening to devour them both whole. "They can't have you!" he bellowed, fangs bared, face drenched in tears. "_I won't let them have you!_"

There was a pull, a drag, a horrible, heartless force working to separate them, and they clung together tighter, sobbing unrestrained into each other's shoulders. Aziraphale's fingers scrambled for purchase on Crowley's jacket, frantic to hold on. "C-Crowley," he cried, body far too hot, throat burning from the inside. "Crowley, I n-need to t-tell you-!"

Crowley drove his head into the angel's shoulder and screamed, loud and long and infused with enough rage to raze entire cities to the ground. "No!" he growled, though there was a wail buried beneath the sound. "You don't have to say anything because they can't have you! _ They can't fucking have you!" _

At the apex of his howl of fury, a pillar of light sprang to life around them, and for half a heartbeat Crowley felt hope rise up in his shattered heart. _ They've come! _ he thought, mind hysterical with the desperation of it. _ They've come to save him! _

Then, disbelievingly, he felt the pull, the inexorable upward drag at his own body, and all hope was burned away to nothing but soot. 

The ground beneath them shook, cracked, and split. Whips of flame licked out, snapping at Aziraphale's body, wrapping around his arms and legs, drawing screams of fear and agony as they scorched through his beloved jacket. Crowley held firm, dug his fingers into the angel's soft flesh, screamed out his defiance to the indifferent world around them that cruelly continued to turn, unaffected. Yet no matter how he screamed and clutched and begged to anyone - 

_ Anyone! _

\- who would listen to make it stop - 

_ Please! Please, he doesn't deserve this, please make it stop! _

_ \- _the pull dragged them apart inch by inch, until only their trembling, grasping hands held them together. Tears spilled to the Earth beneath them, sizzling as they hit the scorched land. 

"I love you, Crowley!" Aziraphale sobbed. "Please, remember that I love you!"

The sound that was wrenched free of the demon's throat could have made the most heartless of men weep. "I love you, Aziraphale!" he cried. 

Flames burst up like a burning tsunami to snatch the angel, body and soul. Blinding light wrapped around the demon’s body, smothering him, dragging him away from the one thing that meant anything to him. Crowley screamed until his throat was raw, clutching to Aziraphale's hands as if they were life itself, until the opposing forces ripped them from one another and the two celestial beings were thrown, hurtling - crying out for one another - in opposite directions. 


	2. Keep Making Him Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 30 years after his entire world was ripped away from him, Crowley struggles just to keep moving forward, doing whatever he can to make his one true love proud of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie; this chapter actually physically hurt me to write. Like, I'm not even joking. I could FEEL my heart breaking while writing certain lines. Thank goodness for booze and antidepressants, my friends, because I expect that continuing to write this fic may dissolve my soul a little. 
> 
> JOIN ME IN MY PAIN, MY LOVELIES. 
> 
> I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think!   
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

**30 Years Later...**

The water was cold. 

A body floated in the old, stained porcelain bathtub. His skin was pale. Glassy, half-closed eyes were fixed on the cracked tile ceiling above. He had been there for hours now. Exactly how long was immaterial. No one would find him here. He'd made certain of that. 

On the side of the small, dingy sink lay a pristine white envelope and a single piece of cardstock with immaculate writing in a soft, blue ink:

****_Don't do anything foolish._  
_Keep making him proud.  
_ _-P_

It was the same message, roughly, that had been delivered every year on this date for the past three decades. Somehow, no matter where on Earth he was residing at the time, the message always found its way to where it needed to be. 

The sender had no way of knowing if their messages provided any semblance of comfort, but they continued to send them anyway. The recipient would never have admitted it aloud, but those words had, on numerous occasions, helped prevent him from doing something...drastic. 

After all, today was a...hard day.

The body in the bathtub stirred. Thin, delicate fingers twitched. Long, flaming red hair swirled weightlessly. Rich, golden eyes blinked and shifted. Thin lips breached the surface of the water with a breathless sigh. 

An angel drew himself from bathwater that had begun the day scalding hot - as hot as his skin could stand - and stepped out onto the dirty linoleum floor. He didn't bother reaching for a towel. He was concerned for neither modesty nor the state of the floor. He wouldn't be returning to this apartment anyway. After today's events he'd be moving on to somewhere new.

He moved about the dingy little one-bedroom, nude and dripping, collecting his meager belongings. He could have waved a hand and had them gathered in an instant, but on this day… On this day he preferred to do things the human way as much as possible. 

By the time he'd gathered everything his body had dried enough to dress. He pulled on his clothes with little emotion: white shirt, grey pantsuit, grey necktie. He'd worn almost the same thing for three decades. Handsome, yet plain, quiet, unassuming. Should've been a bit lighter, in all fairness, but he never could quite deal with wearing white. Too...angelic. And creams, well…

No. Never. He'd go full black again before going there…

He brushed out his hair, willed it to lay flat, and accepted the fact that the damp strands in the cool autumn air were going to chill him to the bone. After all, what was a little more discomfort on the anniversary of the worst day of his existence? 

He'd hoped to sneak out unnoticed, but it seemed the universe was going to play games with him today. As he made his way down several flights of stairs, small duffle bag slung over his shoulder, nearly every one of the low-rental's residents appeared to speak to him. He did his best to offer them kind words and a smile. They were only grateful to him, after all...the young woman he'd encouraged to attend a local AA group, the widower father of three he'd found a higher-paying job for, the teenage boy he'd accompanied to the authorities after he'd been beaten half to death by a homophobic classmate… They were all good people who'd been dealt terrible hands, and he'd done everything he could to help them, and to help them help themselves. He hoped it was enough. Enough for them and enough for…

He remembered the words on the cardstock: _ Keep making him proud. _

"You're leaving, aren't you?" 

It was the teenage boy who'd figured it out - or at least been brave enough to bring it up. He gestured with the hand that wasn't in a cast toward the angel's bag. 

Long fingers tightened around the rough texture of the handle. He considered what he could say, excuses he could give, but ultimately settled for an anemic version of the truth. "Yeah. Time to move on. Got things to do elsewhere."

The boy's deep brown eyes shined with intelligence and a maturity well beyond his years. He gauged the older man carefully, curiously. He took note of the way the man's fingers clenched and relaxed methodically, of how tired he looked. He examined the way the man's soft smile didn't reach his eyes, and how he seemed to be struggling to withhold a full-body tremor. 

"You're not okay," the boy eventually decided, and the angel swallowed hard at the choice of words. 

Not 'there's something wrong' or 'you look unwell'. No…he'd settled on 'you're not okay'. How poignant. How heartbreakingly observant. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?" the boy asked, though the sadness on his features seemed to suggest he already knew the answer. "I...I want to help." Sincerity. He was a good boy. 

The angel's smile changed to something more real, more honest, and significantly more painful to look upon. He reached out with his free hand and ruffled it gently through the boy's hair, sending almost imperceptible sparks of warmth and appreciation. "You can help me by becoming the kind of lawyer you dream of being and making sure assholes like the one who did this to you never get away with it ever again." 

The boy cracked a smile, but it was one of somber resignation. "Will do," he promised. 

The angel considered the boy a moment longer. Then he nodded once and, saying nothing more, walked away. 

It was a long walk, but he needed it. He needed the cool autumn air on his face, and the distractions of the city life around him. Getting to his destination was always...well, definitely not the _ hardest _ part, but it was always difficult to convince himself to go through with it if he allowed himself to think on it too much. 

It was rush-hour when he reached Soho. 

He kept his eyes forward as he worked through the busy streets, trying not to take notice of all that had changed, nor those things that had remained the same. A few curious looks turned his way - people who recognized him but couldn't quite place where from. One or two of them may have genuinely remembered him, but he was careful not to make eye contact. He knew there were a few people here - long-time shopkeepers and residents - who'd managed to piece together that he showed up here, on this street, once a year on the same day every time. None of them had yet questioned him about it directly, and for that he was infinitely grateful. He could lie, of course, but it didn't seem right. He couldn't lie about anything when it came to…

He was here. 

He gazed at the corner building like it was a sleeping beast he was terrified to awaken. In a way, it was. This building, this shop...it hibernated. Nestled among the surrounding city life, it lay at rest, forever awaiting the one who had loved it so dearly. As the angel pressed a trembling hand to one of the pillars that framed the entrance, he could almost feel the building breathing, leaning into his touch, sharing in his pain. 

No one saw the man with the grey suit and lovely red hair enter the old bookshop. Nearly three decades prior the angel had made certain that no other being would ever set foot in this shop again. Human gazes washed over it, as if hypnotised, compelled to move away, forgetting the sight of it the moment their eyes strayed. Demons dared not approach, for the powerful blessings that were performed on the structure yearly, without fail. Angels stayed away partly due to threats that had been made should they dare, partly out of complete indifference for the building's importance. 

So he entered alone, unseen, and no one was there to witness when the jaunty jingle of the bell over the door caused a rush of hot tears to stream down the Archangel Crowley's grief-stricken face.

* * *

_ Crowley howled with rage. _

_ He pulled at shackles bound tight about his wrists - yanked and ripped and twisted at them until his skin cracked, split, and bled. He beat his wings madly and screamed wordless, incoherent fury at the room around him. Demanding answers. Demanding an explanation. Demanding someone fucking well fix this...this… _

_ When he began he may have been screaming at the other angels. They, after all, had been the ones to chain him like this after he'd been forcibly yanked up to Heaven and dropped there like a discarded mutt. He'd been confused, dizzy, and desperate to get back to Aziraphale, and he vaguely recalled being hit rather hard in the back of the head after catching sight of Gabriel and punching him right in his stupid fucking face. _

_ But now, having been subdued and left in this room while the angels worked out what to do with him, he found that his rage was being redirected at Her. _

_ Because he could _ feel _ her. For the first time in thousands of years, he could _ feel _ her...love, her grace, her power...and it felt more like damnation than Falling ever had because he _ couldn't _ feel Az- _

_ "How could you let this happen?!" he cried up to the ceiling, voice raw and hoarse. "He's the only angel in your whole blessed flock that's worth a damn! How could you let him Fall?! Especially when-?" _

_ He dropped to his knees and glared through wet eyes at the expanse of white feathers that drooped to the floor on either side of him. "Why the fuck would I Rise?" he whispered, almost to himself. "Why would I Rise and he Fall? It makes no fucking sense…" _

_ "Your guess is as good as ours." _

_ Crowley whirled with a snarl on his lips, indifferent to the way the shackles ripped at his skin and became slick with blood. _

_ The angel who had appeared before him was one with whom Crowley was unfamiliar. They were small, delicate, and feminine in appearance, with skin the color of the richest caramel. Their body was draped in silky white robes similar to an Indian sari and adorned with silver and gold embellishments. The garb was lovely, but was pale and paltry when compared to the angel's breathtakingly beautiful face. _

_ It was difficult to describe - difficult to even look at, if truth were told - but some combination of melted-chocolate hair and eyes, with lips of which men and women both could only dream, created a visage that was almost too beautiful to bear. _

_ "Who the fuck are you?" Crowley growled, even as his eyes were drawn down, away from direct contact with the angel's unbearably sublime countenance. _

_ "Phanuel," they replied without hesitation, arms crossed elegantly across a slightly-pronounced chest. "And before we go any further, I want you to know that I requested to be the one to come speak with you." _

_ Thousands of years worth of instinct told Crowley to suggest the angel step into a pillar of hellfire, but a spark of curiosity and a desperation for information had him gritting his teeth. "Why?" _

_ Phanuel approached with softly swaying hips in a way that suggested both caution and an intent to imply camaraderie. They carefully came to a stop well outside of Crowley's grasp, but close enough to make the conversation feel more intimate. "I understand you must be incredibly confused, and that your emotions are running high." _

_ Crowley sneered, but somehow Phanuel's lovely face and gentle voice took the sarcastic retort from his throat. Some kind of angelic power was being employed, he was certain, but for the moment he was in no position to combat it. _

_ "I wanted you to know," Phanuel continued with something that nearly resembled a smile, "that not all of the angels of Heaven were anxious for the War. Indeed, many of us were extremely grateful to Aziraphale and yourself for working so hard to thwart it." The curve of lips that may or may not have been a smile disappeared as Phanuel's hands linked delicately across silky folds of white and gold. "There will always be those of us like Gabriel and Michael who see only the...business side of things, but there are just as many of us who had no desire to once again take arms against those who had been our brothers and sisters. _

_ To make a long story short, I want you to understand that, while you may not feel like it at this moment, I am an ally, and I want to help you." _

_ A snarl ripped up from deep in Crowley's throat while treacherously white wings flapped in agitation behind him. "You're right, I _ don't _ feel like it," he growled. "Why don't you just cut the bullshit and explain what the fuck is going on?" _

_ To their credit, Phanuel didn't so much as twitch at Crowley's generous use of profanity. There was, however, an infinitesimal droop in their shoulders. "The God's honest truth-" Their right hand was raised to drive the words even further home. "-is that we have absolutely no idea. Top brass have been scrambling to get some kind of information, but as near as we can tell there were no official orders for Aziraphale's Fall, which is obviously disturbing given there hasn't been a Fallen angel since _ The _ Fall. Just as disturbing is the fact that we can find no official orders for your Rise, nor an explanation of how it occurred, as there's never been any indication to any of us that a Risen demon was even possible." _

_ Time seemed to have ground to a halt. He'd already worked it out himself, of course, but to hear it said so casually by an angel… _

_ "I can't have Risen," Crowley hissed, though it came out as more of a disturbed whimper. _

_ Phanuel's eyes were understanding, but their words were firm. "There is no shortage of angels out there right now saying the same thing, but I assure you that you have. While we may not understand it, we cannot deny it. You've been returned to the Heavenly host. Your grace has been restored and so too shall be your angelic name of-" _

_ "Crowley," the Risen demon growled, and the venom in his voice left no room for argument. "My fucking name is Anthony J. Crowley. It's the name I chose and it's the name I'll use until _ I _ decide to change it." _

_ Phanuel's eyebrows twitched upward. They considered Crowley for a long time as he stared back with cold, stubborn, unblinking eyes. Finally, there was a small inclination of their head. "Very well. I'll ensure that the official records are amended." _

_ There was a snap of fingers. Crowley nearly stumbled, having been pulling against his binds to glare at the angel, but he managed to catch himself. He held Phanuel's eye suspiciously while rubbing at his torn wrists. _

_ Phanuel did not smile, but the sincerity in their words would have been evident to the most paranoid of celestial beings. "Welcome back to Heaven, Archangel Crowley." _

_ The use of the honorarium had Crowley flinching. "I don't give two shits about Heaven," he snapped, though less savagely than before. "All I want is to find Aziraphale. I can't leave him down-" _

_ The change in Phanuel's face was minuscule. Hardly even noticeable by human standards. Even a particularly observant angel may not have picked up on it. But Crowley saw. Crowley saw and felt a distinct and terrifying shift in the fabric of the universe. Before his conscious was even able to compute the sudden visceral change in his perception of existence, his body had begun to tremble. _

_ "I'm very sorry, Crowley." Phanuel's voice was horribly, overwhelmingly gentle. "We...we contacted Hell as soon as we discovered what had happened, but…" _

_ Crowley's knees struck the floor hard enough to crack the bones of his human corporation. Violent spikes of hormone-induced pain shot through his legs, but they were like the buzzing of mosquitoes compared to the anguish that was clawing its way up his chest and into his throat. _

_ "...it seems they were rather unwilling to...welcome...the angel who helped stop the Apocalypse…" _

_ He could hear Phanuel's words, but they were a soft whisper being spoken at the end of a long tunnel. His heart, beating much harder and louder than it had any right to, worked to drown out the angel's voice. _

_ "...I am truly...so very sorry." _

_ There had never before been such a sound in all of Heaven as the scream that was heard then by every angel that resided on the holy plane. Never before had so many angels trembled at once, their essences struck through with the sound of true agony, true misery, true suffering. Angels who had buried their emotions millenia ago suddenly curled in upon themselves in pain, desperate to banish the violent, unconstrained swell of pure grief. _

_ He had no idea how he'd gotten there, but Crowley stared down at Phanuel with his shaking hands fisted in their lovely robes, pinning them to the floor. Small wet blotches appeared on their caramel skin as they looked back up at him with nothing but sympathy. _

_ "You're lying." It should have been a furious roar, a demand for the truth. Instead it was a pathetic plea, a timid whimper, begging for the claim to be a falsehood, some horrible, sadistic joke. _

_ Phanuel's hand slowly rose to lay itself, ever-so-gently, on top of one of Crowley's trembling fists. "You're an Archangel again," they breathed, soft and quiet. "Your reach should be significantly greater now. Can you feel him?" _

_ It wasn't meant to be cruel, but the question felt like a knife twisting in the center of Crowley's being. His fists loosened from Phanuel's robes as the blow to his heart seemed to push him back physically. Phanuel's hand on his tightened just a bit at his reaction. _

_ "Let us be thorough," they suggested, and raised their other hand. _

_ The flash was like a small star exploding in his eyes, the crash of thunder like a hundred mountains crumbling, and suddenly he was enveloped in the scent of dust and books. It made him gasp like a drowning man breaking through the water's surface. He fell backward as Phanuel stood and offered him a hand. He didn't take it. He felt like the smell of the bookshop was pressing in on him, smothering him, because the most important facet of the oh-so-familiar scent was missing. _

_ The celestial presence that defined Aziraphale...it was gone. Gone as though it had never been. _

_ Crowley couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't speak. He could almost feel the flames licking at his body as the bookshop burned around him. Had he ever really even left the burning shop? Had everything since then been a cruel dream? A monstrous trick to make him believe he'd gotten his angel back only to have him ripped away all over again? _

_ "I can't-" he gasped, fingers scrabbling at hollow chest. "I can't-!" _

_ It was unclear how long he spent on the floor of the shop, arms around knees that were curled in against his shattered heart. The passage of time meant nothing. _ Existence _ meant nothing… _

_ Phanuel's fingers on his chin burned. They carefully lifted his head to examine his eyes and saw that the light had gone out of them. They sighed, a sound that was far too empathetic for the majority of angels. _

_ "I've seen this look before," they said kindly. "I saw it in the eyes of many angels who lost their precious ones in the first War, and I know what it means." They carefully lowered their knees to the burnished hardwood floor and let their hand fall to Crowley's shoulder, flexing the fingers just enough to let the other know they were there. "I know what you're considering, Crowley. I know, and I don't blame you, and I won't stop you if that's the path you choose to take. But-" The fingers squeezed again, amicable and pleading. "-I implore you to reconsider. I urge you to think of what _ he _ would have wanted. I'm sure Aziraphale wouldn't have wanted you to-" _

_ Fury. Cold, inexpressible, apoplectic wrath. Without intending to move Crowley found his fingers wrapped around Phanuel's throat, squeezing, _ squeezing _ , until his nails were sunk deep into the flesh. Hot tears were streaming down his face. "Don't you dare fucking speak about what Aziraphale would have wanted." The name caught in his throat and his fingers squeezed harder. "Don't you fucking dare!" _

_ Phanuel stared, unblinking, unbreathing, unconcerned for the state of their corporation. Their windpipe was crushed, so they projected the following words directly into Crowley's mind, as tenderly as they could manage: _I don't. I don't presume. But you, who knew him best...you should. 

_ A hard swallow. A shudder. "He'd want… He'd want…" _

_ Crowley's fingers fell from the angel's ruined throat as an anguished wail ripped through his body. _

_ His hands and head pressed to the floor as the shocks wracked through his celestial core, heavy sobs shaking his body, the whole of the cruelty of the universe as She'd created it pressing in on him from every angle. Without care for the angel who stood and bore witness to his pain, the Risen demon wept and wept, while the bricks and mortar, books and memories that surrounded him offered no tiny reprieve to his incalculable agony. _

* * *

Crowley moved through the bookshop like a ghost, fingers feathering the spines of tomes that hadn't been read in three decades. He felt the heart of the books reaching out for his touch, desperate to have him, to keep him. He longed to give them that care, that comfort, but...it hurt too much. 

The Archangel had performed innumerable blessings and miracles in the years since his Rise, but the greatest magnitude of celestial energy he spent occurred once for every rotation of the Earth around the sun. The spells he cast, the power he sacrificed, kept the precious bookshop protected in its own little pocket of time and space. It existed now as it had then, never aging, never changing. Not pristine, no, for it had never been pristine. His angel wouldn't have loved it so much if it had been. No, Crowley kept the beloved space pleasantly dusty, bewilderingly organized, delightfully cluttered. Exactly as its owner had last left it. 

Effectively invisible to humans. Deadly to demons. Untouched. Safe. He would keep the bookshop safe. 

A fist curled around the lip of a shelf. A breath caught. A memory of love and laughter, as vibrant and real and painful as ever it had been. 

_ He would keep the bookshop safe. _

Hours passed surrounded by heartbreak. The ghost who was an Archangel haunted the stacks, the backroom, the cellar, the upstairs flat. He whispered blessings and prayers. He pressed his celestial power into the structure and pressed tear-drenched kisses to cherished belongings. By the time the sun was deep in the sky the shop was protected for another year and the Archangel Crowley was weak with overexertion and dispondance. 

He needed to rest. Needed a place to lay and recuperate. But he couldn't - wouldn't - stay here overnight. He'd tried that only once, the first time, that first year, and the heartbreak of laying in the angel's bed, surrounded by the smell of his cologne, had nearly destroyed what little sanity was left within him. 

He gathered his bag and headed toward the door, thinking that perhaps he'd catch a taxi directly to the airport and do his best to rest on the flight to Korea that had just had a seat miraculously open up. 

Despite almost unmanageable fatigue, Crowley's golden eyes lit with divine fury when the shop's door opened and a shadowed figure walked in without hesitation. He dropped his bag and lifted his hands, unsure what he was going to do, only knowing that the other would regret their indiscretion. 

"Stand down, Crowley," Phanuel ordered. 

Crowley's eyes narrowed. His stance did not change. "You do not command me, Phanuel," he snapped. "And you know the consequences of setting foot in this shop. Not even you are exempt in this." 

The corners of Phanuel's mouth turned down. They heaved a heavy sigh as they smoothed down the folds of their soft purple pantsuit. "I am well aware, Crowley," they assured him, "and believe me when I say that I would not have come here, especially on this day, if it weren't of great importance."

Crowley's anger at the intrusion did not abate, but for what they had done for him in the past he waved a hand to allow Phanuel to speak. 

"We need to move fast," they told him, the set of their jaw the only thing betraying their concern. "And I knew you would be most displeased with me if I didn't bring you on board with this one. 

The Angel Slayer has been spotted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I shatter your heart yet? 
> 
> Just wait...there's going to be SO much more...
> 
> I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think!   
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!


	3. The Angel Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Angel Slayer has made his way to London and has already taken another victim. Crowley has a very personal stake in taking this monster down, but is about to make a heart-wrenching discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say that the previous chapter hurt me to write? Because this one made my chest feel like it was caving in, no joke. ;_; It's getting worse you guys! And it's going to get even more painful as we go! ;-;
> 
> I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think!  
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

**About 30 Years Ago**

_ Crowley stood in the doorway of the bookshop with red-raw eyes, knowing that he didn’t have much time before someone arrived to retrieve him. Even if Phanuel covered for him, he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to just saunter down to Earth without proper clearance for long.  _

_ He forced himself inside, though it felt as if the walls and the books contained within were closing in on him, ready to crush him, to bury him alive in their sorrow.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he walked, fingers trailing against dusty shelves and yellowed pages. “I’m sorry I couldn’t-” He choked on a sob, struggled and barely won against the urge to vomit. “I couldn’t protect him for you. He won’t- He won’t be coming back for you.” _

For me.

_ “But I can protect  _ you _ . I won’t let anyone else touch you, don’t worry,” he promised, his voice an agonized, shattered thing. “You’ll remain his, only his, until the Universe burns around you.” _

Only his… Only his…

_ He stalked the shop like a wraith, a broken spirit, growing weaker and weaker as the moments ticked by. Bit by bit he leeched his life force into the bricks and mortar, the wood and parchment, into every atom of the shop and its contents. Not a single thing would change, he swore to God and every breath of Her Creation. Supposing it drew away the last of his strength until there was nothing left to bind his existence together- _

It would be so much easier that way…

_ -he would ensure that this shop, his angel’s heart and soul, would never change, never be touched, never be sullied by another unworthy being’s presence.  _

_ By the time he’d performed every miracle he could imagine, and drained himself to near-death, it was nightfall. Somehow he found himself in the flat above the shop, a place he’d rarely had reason to inhabit before.  _

_ He stumbled, feeling almost drunk in his fatigue and fragility, past the quaint little kitchen, past the bathroom stocked well with fragrant bubble baths, down to the quiet bedroom at the very back of the building. _

_ He’d never been in this room. There’d never been cause, and it had always seemed an improbably ridiculous, pointless request to ask to see it. Now he saw it, and it was somehow both surprising and exactly as he had expected it to be.  _

_ It was small. Cozy. Most of the space was taken up by an ancient-looking four-poster bed adorned in soft, cream-colored sheets and pillows that were scarcely wrinkled. The entire affair would have appeared to have been never used, if not for the tartan-print throw blanket that lay haphazardly near the foot of the bed. Crowley was drawn irresistibly into an image of his angel sitting propped up against the headboard, clad in the softest pajamas a miracle could have produced, with that tartan throw draped across his legs as he read all throughout the night and into morn.  _

_ A single bookshelf stood near the bed, cleaner and more organized than anything else in the entire building. Crowley approached this one cautiously, reverently, and felt his entire body tremble as he spied the titles along some of the spines.  _

_ They were all here...all together in this singular housing, kept tidy and pristine and beside the place where the angel would occasionally rest his head...all the books Crowley himself had ever gifted Aziraphale since the advent of the printed word.  _

_ He would have thought there was nothing left inside of him to come out after spending a good month in Heaven shrieking his pain to the Universe.  _

_ Now he curled in upon himself in the center of his angel’s bed. The tartan throw had found its way into his shaking hands, pressed against his cheek, soaking up his tears as he sobbed without restraint. He could smell the angel’s cologne on the fabric, drawing further excruciating wails. Everything ached, everything burned. His head and heart throbbed. Existence was agony.  _

How can I be expected to endure this…?

_ Somehow he found himself, panicked and in pain and eyes near-blind with tears, stumbling down the stairwell. He tripped down the last few steps to land in a pathetic, mewling heap on the shop floor. He couldn’t- He had to- He couldn’t be here any longer- _

_ He scrambled on hands and knees, desperate, needing to get out, needing to get away from the reminders, the scents, the sensations, the memories- _

_ The shop door slammed shut behind him as he gagged and spat stomach bile onto the walkway outside.  _

_ When he thought he could stand again without collapsing he forced himself to his feet and faced the presence that stood waiting for him at the edge of the walk. “Just you?” he mumbled while roughly rubbing the mess from his lips with his sleeve. “I’m kinda insulted. Figured they’d’ve sent some  _ muscle _ to drag me back.” _

_ Phanuel raised one perfectly-shaped brow. Though significantly shorter than him in stature, the other somehow managed to look down upon him. “Do not mistake my appearance for weakness, Crowley,” they instructed. “Even if you hadn’t drained yourself so thoroughly I assure you that I would be more than enough to escort you back to Heaven.” _

_ Crowley huffed a little laugh, but there was no humor to it. “Of course.”  _

_ Phanuel considered him carefully. “Have you done what you needed to do?” they asked. There was sympathy in their voice, but it was akin to the sympathy an adult might offer a troubled child whom they are certain will act out again and again. “Convincing the other Archangels to turn their heads a second time will not be a possibility. You are an anomaly, Crowley. You will be watched very closely and will not be allowed to return to Earth until you have proven you are trustworthy.” _

_ He nearly laughed at that as well, but the sound died in his throat. Everything he did, everything he was from here on out, was nothing more than a means to an end. He would protect this bookshop, this last remnant of what had been the only true good in the Universe, with all that he had, whatever that meant for him moving forward.  _

_ He forced himself to meet Phanuel’s painfully striking gaze with the bloodshot messes that were his own eyes. “How long do you think this will last?” He gestured vaguely behind himself without daring to look back again. He wasn’t sure he would survive it. _

_ Phanuel scrutinized the building from top to bottom, eyes narrowed, lips drawn together. They lifted one arm, as if to physically touch the shields Crowley had erected. “I give it no more than ten thousand hours,” they finally concluded. _

_ Crowley cringed, struggled for a few long moments with the maths. “Less than fourteen months,” he sighed. His head was throbbing and seemed worse the longer he held his gaze on Phanuel’s face. “We’ll call it a year then. What are the chances I can prove myself trustworthy within a year?” _

_ The other angel seemed taken aback by that, but barely a heartbeat passed before a small, compassionate smile arose on their lips. “It shall be difficult, there is little doubt of that. But I shall help you.” _

_ Crowley nodded. With his job done and his future determined, he finally allowed his burning gaze to drop, and though it practically murdered what was left of his dignity, he whispered a quiet, “Thank you.” _

_ There was a long moment of silence before the gentle response. “Let us go, then. Let us help you to make him proud.” _

* * *

**Present Day**

Crowley climbed into the passenger seat of the little sedan Phanuel had acquired and worked hard to contain the swell of excited fury that threatened to devour him. “Tell me what you know,” he insisted.

A wave of Phanuel’s hand across the car’s steering wheel set the engine running and the wheels turning, carrying them out into the Soho night. “What I know couldn’t cover the tip of a covert feather,” they admitted through a grimace. “We’ve had a small faction of well-trained angels roaming the continent since the last attack, tracking any flicker of demonic energy. One of them was attacked less than an hour ago within London. Their cry for help was answered by two others who had been following a lead in Syria. They arrived in time to see the Slayer slink off into the shadows. He vanished before they could advance, but once his presence was confirmed backup was called and we began cutting off exits out of the city. We believe we have him trapped within a relatively small area. We just need to track him down before he does any more damage.”

“The one who was attacked tonight?” Crowley questioned.

Phanuel shook their head and said nothing. No one had survived an attack yet.

Crowley’s fists tightened against his thighs as he glared out into the city night. 

_ The Angel Slayer _ …

Crowley had been in America when the first victim was discovered five months prior. An angel who had been visiting Cairo hadn’t returned to Heaven after his assignment. The angel sent to retrieve him found a hotel room spattered in blood and littered with feathers. The body left behind had been stabbed multiple times. The wounds reeked of hellfire. 

The second was found in Istanbul, washed up along the coast. There was no sign of her wings beyond the bloodied stumps protruding from her shoulders. Her throat was slit from ear to ear. 

A third was found in Bulgaria, a fourth in Croatia. By the time the fifth was found in Germany a meeting was called between representatives from Heaven and Hell. Heaven threatened retribution befitting of the War that had never been, sanctioned by God or not. It was telling of the fear rippling through the angel population that even Gabriel swore to stride into Hell and smite as many demons as he could before they took him down.

Crowley had, with an exceptional level of resistance bolstered by his undying hatred for the smug bastard, almost felt impressed. 

Hell, however, had shocked all of them by raising their hands in the air and denying any claim to the murders. The Slayer, they’d said, was one of theirs only in the strictest sense. A renegade, they claimed: one who had been delegated to an eternity in the deepest pits. It was not yet clear how this renegade had managed to escape their imprisonment, but Hell wove a tale of finding dozens of demons dismembered, gutted, torn into pieces; a veritable path of death and destruction woven throughout the nine circles, ending only when the renegade had, apparently, escaped up to Earth. 

As a permanent resident on Earth, caring for and protecting humans to the best of his ability, Crowley had been invited to the meeting and had inquired with Beelzebub directly as to the crime for which the renegade demon had been imprisoned. He still remembered the look in those black eyes as the Demon Prince considered their response. A punishment set down by Satan himself, they’d conceded after a drawn-out silence. A punishment enacted when the Dark Lord discovered that this one had obliterated a newly-created demon without his consent. The first newly-created demon in millennia.

Crowley didn’t remember much of the meeting past that. He recalled screaming for clarification as his fellow Archangels struggled to hold him back. He recalled blood and spit and a great deal of swearing, and Beelzebub backing away from him with hands in the air. He recalled Gabriel hissing at him to stop being such a fool, and he recalled the sensation of his knuckles shattering the bastard’s nose. Phanuel had had a particularly difficult time smoothing that bit over, but had managed to convince the other Archangels to pardon the outburst, given this new information that was surely an overwhelmingly emotional blow. 

The Angel Slayer, a renegade demon cutting a swath of celestial death throughout both Heaven and Hell, was the one who had cut the string tethering Aziraphale’s existence to the Universe. 

Phanuel’s borrowed vehicle came to a halt in a dark, seedy area of the city that Crowley was unfamiliar with. The buildings that surrounded them were in varying states of disrepair. Several streetlights were out; one about a block away was flickering intermittently. It was disconcertingly quiet. 

“Can you feel it?” Phanuel asked, voice as low as a whisper. 

Crowley closed his eyes, swallowed back the rage that urged him to get out there immediately. Concentrated. Forced his shoulders to relax. 

It was there. It was faint, obviously shielding itself as best it could, but it was there. Flitting about in the shadows. A demonic presence drenched in a desire for death. 

“I feel it,” Crowley said, opening his eyes and swallowing back a reflexive gag. His hand was already on the door handle when Phanuel’s fell upon his arm. 

“Be careful,” the other warned. “This creature, whatever it is, is slippery enough to have escaped Hell while tearing apart everyone it met along the way. It has murdered numerous angels that we know of, and there are several others missing that haven’t been found. It is a predator, Crowley. Don’t let yourself become prey.”

Crowley wanted to growl at Phanuel, to snatch his arm away from their touch and plunge out into the darkness to do what needed to be done...what  _ he  _ needed to be the one to do. Instead he nodded, turned, and stepped calmly out of the car, biting his lip so hard it bled. 

The street outside smelled of piss and vomit. A perfectly pleasant aroma to accompany the lingering presence of a coldblooded murderer. 

“A circle of angels has been erected around a five-mile radius,” Phanuel explained. “We will be informed immediately if any demon approaches the limits of the ‘wall’, but we expect he will avoid being spotted all together, so it’s up to the two of us to track him down. We shall split up, but I insist you call for me the moment you think you’ve spotted him. We need not take any more risks. The two of us together should be able to take him down without further losses.”

Crowley nodded, but he was scarcely absorbing the instructions. 

He had no intention of calling for assistance. 

He would find the Angel Slayer himself.

And he would make him pay in ways Hell could never have imagined.

Phanuel made their way East. Crowley strode off toward the West, in the direction of the flickering streetlight. 

The streets were empty and silent. A vague, wide net of angelic influence settled over the entire area; a gentle suggestion to any humans within the circle to stay in their homes, safely out of the way. There was no need for them to get caught up in this, after all. The Lord only knew what the Angel Slayer would do to any poor mortal who came between him and his celestial marks. His modus operandi thus far had proven rather...psychotic.

Though he was weak from his exertions at the bookshop, Crowley stretched his focus to the limits of his power, reaching out with tendrils of Heavenly grace, probing the atmosphere around him for a sniff of the presence he sought. That spark of psychosis flickered at a corner of his mind, simultaneously hiding and calling out. It wanted to be found, he thought, and he smiled grimly at the idea. “I’m coming for you,” he whispered to the darkness. “Make no mistake.”

Thick shadows crawled across the face of the moon as the Archangel stalked the dirty streets. Soft and silent as a breath, he moved between buildings, past walls swathed in graffiti, down alleyways that stank of decomposing garbage and cat shit. He let his eyes flutter closed and followed the pull of his own grace, an insistent tug against the wreck beneath his ribs, leading him, drawing him-

The crash and clang had his eyes wide, arms raised, hands curled into claws and teeth bared, prepared for battle. His heart and lungs stopped dead in their ministrations, reserving his energy for the task at hand. A growl of vengeance rose up his throat to spill across his lips. 

The black cat - a skinny, miserable-looking bag of fleas - took off running, the trashcan it had toppled all but forgotten in the face of a truly terrifying foe. 

Crowley sighed, jaw clenched. His body was coiled like a spring, ready to strike. He needed to aim himself at a target soon before he lost his bloody-

Across the street a shadow shifted, turned,  _ smiled.  _

Every atom of Crowley’s being went cold. He could  _ feel  _ it. The presence, flickering just as the streetlight had flickered, taunting him, teasing him…  _ I’m right here. Come and get me. _

The shadow drifted down an ichor-black alleyway, vanishing into the dark, but Crowley could still  _ feel  _ it. It drew him like a hunter to the kill.

Like a moth to the flame.

His heart burst to life in a manic beat of torment and rage as his feet carried him into the blackness of the alley. The intensity of his own breaths caused his body to tremble. At his sides, long fingers clenched and stretched rhythmically. He could almost feel the perpetrator’s throat beneath them as he  _ squeezed… _

A single ray of moonlight split the alleyway in two. At one end stood an angel with nothing to lose and everything to avenge. At the other stood a cloak of darkness twirling a gleaming silver dagger forged of hellfire. 

Time seemed to come to a stop, though if it had, Crowley had nothing to do with it. He stared forward at the figure before him, so close...so close… 

He could never have his angel back, but now, for the first time in three decades, he had the chance to avenge him.  _ Would that make you happy, angel? Would that make you proud? Would you forgive me for the blood on my hands if it meant your killer could never hurt anyone again? _

He didn’t recall parting his lips, couldn’t remember bidding the words to bubble up from his throat, but they came out all the same: “I’m here to end you, you bastard.”

There was a moment of silence, almost electric in its furiosity. Then a soft, cruel chuckle echoed back at him from the darkness, followed by an almost incredulous response. “So you’re the one they sent to end me? What a weak, sad little thing you are...how disappointing.” The moonlight glinted against the hellfire dagger as the shadow twirled it, taunting. 

Crowley felt a strange agony well up in his chest, though he wasn’t immediately certain what had caused it. His revenge-desperate mind rushed forward without him, snarling at the shadows with teeth bared. “You took everything that mattered from me, you bastard!” His body shook with rage, with the cumulative misery of the past thirty years. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I will tear you from this world, piece by piece _by_ _piece_.”

Another chuckle, louder this time, the silver blade twitching back and forth as though hungry. “ _ I  _ took from  _ you?  _ Everything that mattered, was it? Oh my… I think we’ve rather gotten our roles reversed, my dear.”

_ My dear. _

Crowley’s chest constricted so immediately he felt his breastbone had collapsed in on itself. Wide eyes burned, skin went cold, throat as dry as sand. Long, frigid, bony fingers coiled around his heart and  _ squeezed _ . “W-who-?”

The shadow disengaged itself from the darkness. Into the moonlight stepped a figure wrapped in night-black feathers that pulled away to reveal white clothes splattered in blood. His head tilted to one side, considering his prey with a small, disturbed smile. Soft white curls fluttered in the cool breeze. Emotionless grey eyes peered out from a pale, drawn face marred by long red scars. 

It was wrong...it was all so very wrong, and yet-

The sound that came from Crowley’s throat was hardly more than a broken whimper. 

“A-Aziraphale?”

The cruel laughter echoed up and down the alley, ghosts of sound that had once been beautiful, joyful, warm and comforting. “Try again,” the blond-haired demon crooned. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name.”

Crowley’s feet drew him forward, a hand outreached. He was trembling beyond recovery now. Had he been in a state to think rationally, he’d have worried that his corporation wouldn’t be able to withstand the violence of it. He could hardly see for the unbidden tears welling in his eyes. “A-Aziraphale…” His voice was a whisper, a rough, desperate plea. Something in the back of his mind, some sense of self-preservation, begged him to wake up before this agonizing farce could go on any farther. “You’re alive…” 

A single blond-white brow rose, bemused. A deceptively soft jaw jutted in consideration. “Do I know you, sad little angel?” 

A cruel jape, surely?

He couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They flowed freely down his face as he fought with the dual urges to laugh and scream. “Aziraphale, it’s m-me!” he cried, desperation settling in his chest and making its home there. “Angel, it’s Crowley!”

A strange look passed across the demon’s face. Heavy eyes widened slightly. Jaw twitched. Lips pulled together in thought. Somehow they’d come face-to-face, and one gloved hand reached up to caress Crowley’s face in a way that drew a sob from the angel’s chest. “Crowley?” the demon repeated in Aziraphale’s unmistakably beautiful voice. 

All at once Crowley’s arms were around the blond demon’s shoulders, clutching him tight, holding on for all he or anyone else in the Universe was worth. Hot, heavy sobs shook his body as he scrambled to wrap his fingers around blood-stained clothes, in a frenzy to prove that it was real, that  _ he  _ was real. “Oh  _ God _ , Aziraphale!” he wept openly into the other’s hair. “I thought you were- They told me you were-”

A soft hand found the center of Crowley’s back, gently stroking, soothing him. “Shhh...there there, my dear,” hummed Aziraphale’s voice. “Don’t be foolish now. How could you possibly be my Crowley?”

The angel stiffened at the question, tried to pull back to meet those grey eyes, but was held firmly in place by a body much stronger than his own. “Aziraphale, what-?”

Hot breath. A wicked, hateful hiss in his ear. “Your lot killed him, remember?”

A gasp. A wet, horrid squelch of a sound.

Warmth, tinged with the scent of copper. 

Crowley stumbled backward. He didn’t remember touching his chest, yet found himself staring at a hand drenched in the same blood that poured down the front and back of his lovely grey suit. 

The hellfire blade shone in the moonlight, dripping in ruby red. 

Grey, emotionless eyes stared down at him as he stumbled over himself and hit the ground, hard. 

_ No...it can’t...this can’t be… _

One hand clenched at the gaping wound in his chest, the other reaching for the beautiful, terrible creature hovering above him, Crowley struggled to speak but could find no breath to make the sounds. 

“Silly angel,” the Slayer spoke down to him, his voice almost disturbingly gentle. He crouched down, mantling black wings over his kill, and that gloved hand reached out again to draw the tears away from a pale, shocked face. “You shouldn’t have come. I’ll kill you all, you know. One by one, even if it takes the rest of eternity. I will kill you all for what you did to my Crowley.”

_ I’m not-! They didn’t-! Angel...please-! _

The world faded rapidly as tears spilled down his face to the pavement beneath him. The broken Archangel drew a final breath and went still. 

The Angel Slayer smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think!  
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!


	4. To Make a Maniac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does an angel - even one who has Fallen - become a cold-blooded killer with no remorse who doesn't even recognize the face of his true love?
> 
> WARNING for graphic violence in this chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with more pain and angst! For those of you who were hoping to see what happened with Crowley at the end of the last chapter...I apologize. I went in a different direction for this one in order to show you what has brought Aziraphale to this point. If you hate me after this one I won't be surprised, but please don't hate me. lol 
> 
> I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think!  
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

**30 Years Ago**

_ Aziraphale had never before felt - or even been capable of feeling - such immense, unrelenting darkness.  _

_ He’d  _ burned _ . Inside and out, the flames devoured. The stench of sulfur choked him, stole the air from his lungs, the tears from his eyes. It consumed him. Seared. Scalded. Charred. Blistered. _

_ He wasn’t certain how much time passed. He didn’t think it was much more than a few hours, but it had felt like days at the very least, weeks, perhaps even months.  _

_ He didn’t recall moving - or being moved - but he lay now on cold, hard stone. His naked body trembled, what remained of his skin screaming in agony. The cool of the stone may have felt soothing, if it weren’t for the fact that it burned in an entirely different, equally terrible way: like tender, broken flesh pressed to frosted steel before being torn away again.  _

_ A mangled mess of bone, tissue, and ash lay spread out behind him. What had once been brilliant white wings that shone like the sun were now a bloodied, blackened, broken ruin. He knew this - felt it, wept from the pain of it - but he could not  _ see _ it. His eyes had been the first to melt away as he shrieked until his throat was too torn to produce sound. _

_ There were voices. Discussing. Hissing. Occasionally shouting. He tried to listen to them, but the words were drowned out by the shrill, unyielding howl of his body, his soul, his essence. _

_ More time passed. Each second felt like an eternity. _

_ He’d been moved again. Knees on cold stone. Wrists in chains pulled taut, lifting his arms to the ceiling. His head hung lifeless against his chest, but he lifted it when footsteps approached. The sound of the feet striking the stone felt like a gong being hammered at in the center of his brain. He opened his eyes and was vaguely surprised to see a hazy configuration of shadows before him. Had someone healed his eyes? Or had he been hanging here long enough to begin to recover naturally? _

_ “You must have done something quite repulsive.” The voice was familiar. Vile and vicious. Spiteful. “We haven’t had any new Fallen since...well, ever.” There was a smirk in the voice; the owner thought himself quite amusing. “I must say, it is quite the treat to see the Principality Aziraphale get knocked down a peg. All of the pegs, honestly. Not a peg left on the board for you, little one.” _

_ Aziraphale blinked through the shadows. He moved his lips, but no sound came out. He pushed out his tongue to lick them - the tiny drops of moisture burned like acid - and tried again. He was horrified by the raw death rattle that was his voice, but he managed to force out a few weak, gasping words. _

_ “Crowley...will...come for...me…” _

_ The laughter was relentlessly cruel. It echoed, loud and invasive, drilling into Aziraphale’s brain like the shriek of nails on a chalkboard. A face appeared inches from his own, gleefully bloodthirsty black eyes far too close to his own. Though his vision was hazy and muddled, Aziraphale recognized the Duke of Hell whom Crowley loathed so much.  _

_ “Is that what you believe, little Fallen angel?” Hastur croaked, the grin on his face pure venom. “Well you better get used to disappointment, former Principality, because your dear Crowley isn’t coming for you this time.” The demon leaned closer, the stench of his cloying breath hot and assaulting against Aziraphale’s raw skin. Then he whispered the words that would destroy what was left of the Fallen angel’s heart.  _

_ “ _ He’s dead. _ ” _

_ It seemed that the world must have stopped turning, because there was no reality in which Aziraphale could accept those words as authentic in any conceivable way.  _

_ “You’re lying,” he whispered. He’d meant for his tone to be one of conviction, but it came out shaky, ragged. “You’re lying. He Rose. I saw it. He returned to Heaven’s grace.” _

_ Hastur pulled back, freeing Aziraphale of the nauseating fetor of his breath, but he was grinning in a way that made the world swim. “Yes, he certainly did,” the Duke sniggered. “And what did you think would happen when he suddenly showed up at the Pearly Gates? Did you think the other angels would welcome him back with open arms? The Serpent of Eden who orchestrated the First Temptation? The demon who spent six millennia seeding doubt in the mind of their representative on Earth? The rebel who put a stop to the War they’d been waiting for since Time began?”  _

_ Aziraphale’s mouth was moving, he was certain of it, but no words were coming out. He ached to deny it, to cry out that Heaven wouldn’t- They couldn’t- _

_ But they  _ could _ , and they  _ would _ . He knew this firsthand. He would have experienced it himself, had it not been for the plan he and Crowley had- _

Oh God…

Oh God, no…

_ “You’re lying!” he cried, a cracked sound. “YOU’RE LYING!” He yanked at his chains, heedless of the way the cold steel bit into the open flesh of his wrists, desperate to get at the demon in front of him, to knock him down, tear him apart, make him take it back- _

Take it back! Take it back! Take it back!

_ \- but all he got was more laughter, cruel and harsh and echoing all around him. _

_ “Oh, it’s true, little Fallen one,” the Duke crooned. His face could have split with the force of his grin. “Would you like to see for yourself?” _

_ Aziraphale hadn’t a heartbeat in which to contemplate the words when a cold, slimy hand pressed to his forehead, and suddenly his mind was being violated, molested by images he would rather have burned for eternity than experience even once. _

_ He screamed and screamed until his essence grew weak and he passed out with hot tears burning trails of despair down his cheeks.  _

* * *

**20 Years Ago**

_ “You’re quiet, angel. Is everything okay?” _

_ Aziraphale sat slumped forward, staring down at his own hands. They were so pale. Had he always been this pale? He tried to remember, but could hardly picture his own face as it had once been.  _

_ The gentle padding of sock-clad feet. A soft huff of breath. A flutter of clothing as a body knelt before him. Aziraphale held his breath, closed his eyes, knew what was coming, shuddered when it did.  _

_ Long, delicate fingers, infinitely gentle and loving, slid along his knees and thighs, rubbing warm, soothing circles. It felt like Heaven. It felt like Hell. _

_ “Tell me what’s wrong, please. I want to make it right, my love.” _

_ His eyes and chest burned. He felt those lovely hands moving along his skin, trying to comfort him, succeeding and failing in equal measure. He longed to cry, but his tears had long ago dried up. There was nothing left inside but the gaping, aching hole where his heart had once been.  _

_ “Is it something I’ve done? Are you angry with me? Please, angel, tell me what I’ve done wrong. I want to fix it.” _

_ He tried to resist. He knew what would happen if he gave in. It had happened a thousand times before. This could be the one that finally destroyed him completely. But then, perhaps that was exactly what he wanted. Then he would never have to go through it again.  _

_ He tried to resist. He tried so, so hard. _

_ “Please, angel…” _

_ He failed, like so many times before, desperate for even just a few moments of the illusion, just a few moments of pretending… _

_ He lifted his head, opened his eyes, and met molten gold orbs that looked back at him with such breathless, undying love that he felt a few brief seconds of warmth. His whole body was shaking, a relentless tremor that had been plaguing him since… Though the tears wouldn’t come, he felt the way his eyes ached to spill them. Throat and chest tight and cold as ice. Trembling fists curled together at his sides. _

_ Warm fingers tender against his legs.  _

_ He didn’t mean for the words to leave his lips. They drew out of him like a living thing, struggling to survive in the harshest of environments. “I miss you… I miss you so much…” _

_ Thin lips curved into a smile. Golden eyes full of fondness, of desire, of passion.  _

_ “I’m right here, angel. I’m right here.” _

_ “No you’re not,” came the unbidden response. One quivering hand lifted to move, reverentially, through flaming red waves. “You’re not here. You’ve never been here.” _

_ Crowley leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed, sighing softly, ignorant to the other’s words.  _

_ Perhaps there were a few tears left after all. Aziraphale felt something hot and caustic burning trails down his face.  _

_ “I love you,” he whispered, the words a truly special kind of torture. “I love you so much…” _

_ Golden eyes fluttered open, regarding him with sweet benevolence. “I love you too, angel. More than anything.” _

_ This was the moment. He knew it well, had experienced it so very many times, yet the throbbing pain of it never lessened even the smallest amount. He felt his body frozen, as if made of stone, unable to move, speak, scream, sob, as cruel hands wrapped around Crowley’s arms and pulled him away.  _

_ The redhead cried out, cursed, screamed, fought, begged...begged for Aziraphale to help him, defend him, save him… _

Please, please, please, please!

_ And Aziraphale watched - couldn’t do anything except watch - as the only being who had ever truly meant anything to him was engulfed, shrieking in agony, in flames the color of fresh blood. _

_ Aziraphale watched. His eyes burned. The hole in his chest grew a little wider. Somewhere, near enough to be heard but far enough away to almost seem like he was imagining it, there was the sound of cold, cruel laughter. _

_ Eventually his body was released. He slumped forward, head down, staring at his own hands.  _

_ So pale. So very pale. _

_ “You’re quiet, angel. Is everything okay?” _

* * *

**Ten Years Ago**

_ Had he truly been an angel once?  _

_ He lay in a pool of his own blood and tried to recall. _

_ It seemed such a long time ago. Surely it was possible that he’d dreamed it all? That fussy creature, so obsessed with food and books...had he been a hallucination? A longing daydream pulled from a tortured mind as it desperately clung to the last threads of sanity? _

_ No...he knew that being had been real, once. He knew it, because that being - that bright, shining silly shop-owner - was the one Crowley had loved.  _

_ Crowley...loved… _

_ He was no longer that being. He wasn’t sure when the last threads of that creature had been ripped from his soul, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they were gone.  _

_ He was something else now. What, exactly, was up for debate.  _

_ The blood around him began to bubble and boil. An uninspired torture. Nothing he hadn’t experienced a thousand times by now. He hardly felt the physical pain anymore. The psychological, that still held a few particularly sharp barbs. The idiots always went for the blood and bones and flaying of flesh. The more intelligent ones went for the heart. _

_ Not that there was much truly left of it. _

_ The Other him had been so full of heart, so full of love and joy and kindness. _

_ He was no longer that person. No longer that being. No longer that angel. No longer even that  _ demon _ .  _

_ He thought of the name he’d once worn proudly. Thought of the way it had sounded on the lips of- _

_ He closed his eyes, shook his head, breathed deep of air saturated with the stench of copper and brimstone. _

_ He should have a new name, he thought. Something simple. Something that broached no allegiance or attachment to anything or anyone. Something that had never been the name of either an angel or a demon.  _

_ The blood was seeping down his throat now, choking him, burning his airways, the metallic taste forcing his body to gag and sputter against his will. Somewhere a demonic presence tittered with delighted amusement.  _

_ He knew that he was nothing to these creatures he shared a realm with, those who trapped and tortured and tormented him. He was nobody. A meaningless, pointless non-existence that they only drew to the surface of reality when they got bored enough or ruthless enough or just felt like a particularly hearty laugh. Practically useless, often ignored for incalculable periods of time, a jagged shard of a thing hidden away in the deepest, darkest corners of what made up their miserable world. _

_ As the blood seeped down into his lungs, boiling him from within, it occurred that perhaps there was just a small bit of that fussy old bibliophile left deep down in the farthest reaches of his mind, because he actually chuckled a bit through the bubbling plasma as he made his choice.  _

_ That day, while a demonic presence watched on, none the wiser, Aziraphale died.  _

_ And Z was born.  _

* * *

**Six Months Ago**

_ He couldn’t have said when exactly the thought of leaving Hell had first occurred to him. Oh, he had spent many years longing for escape, of course. He’d prayed to a God he assumed no longer listened to him for release, whether it be physical or existential. He’d had beautiful (painful) fantasies of a dark angel with golden eyes breaking through the nine circles to rescue him. He’d occasionally considered begging for release, swearing fealty to the demonic legions, promising to do whatever they wanted if only his own personal Hell would be ended.  _

_ But somewhere along the way, perhaps gradually, perhaps happening in a single moment which he was too mentally scarred to recognize, he’d decided that he was going to leave, and it would be a great spectacle of which the denizens of Hell would speak for eons to come.  _

_“_It’s time…_”_

_ The voice that whispered to him was soft and tender and full of love. It was not the beautiful copy created by Hell specifically to tear his mind and soul to shreds. It was the voice of the being he’d loved - ever would love. It was a memory. It was a desperate plea for some semblance of sanity. It wasn’t real, and a part of him understood that, but a more broken, irreparable part of him needed to pretend that it was. _

_ “ _ It’s time, my love…”

_ They rarely bothered to check in on him in person anymore. It had been quite the game at first, watching the angel who’d helped stop Armageddon to crack and splinter and shatter beneath their ministrations. They’d watched, he knew, enjoying his misery, lapping it up, feasting on it. High-ranking demons in particular were given the privilege of molesting his mind, drawing out lost dreams, close-kept secrets, long-held desires, all used to design the next round of torments. Some enjoyed inflicting physical pain upon him, and this he endured with stubborn defiance. Most preferred the psychological arts. He’d experienced a countless number of emotional poisons. He’d watched the Earth burn. He’d seen human friends tortured and torn apart.  _

_ And he’d watched his love die. Again, and again, and again, and again… _

_ But as time went on interest in personally orchestrating his torture had died off, and it was rare that anyone bothered to look in on him as his perdition went on.  _

_ When someone finally did, then, he knew he had to seize his chance, for there was no telling when he would get another.  _

_ “ _ You know what to do, angel… You can do this… _ ” _

_ He began to weep. Wet, and wailing, and pathetic. He curled upon the ground, a sorry, sobbing, piteous mass of flesh folded in upon itself, arms over head, knees to chest, as he began to murmur a litany of indistinct pleas.  _

_ It was soft. It was weak. He hated doing it.  _

_ It had the desired effect.  _

_ Any demon who wandered into Aziraphale’s cage after all this time was looking for a plaything. They would want much more than a miserable little slug writhing on the ground in a sea of his own tears.  _

_ They approached. He could feel them. He could feel their annoyance, their frustration, their vicious desire to see a show. He heard a voice, demanding he get up, cajoling him, threatening him. He felt them come closer.  _

_ “ _ Just a bit closer, angel… It’s against his left hip… Move fast… Strike true… _ ” _

_ The demon surely understood his fate in the moment he placed his slimy hand on Z’s arm and heard the way the bawling ceased immediately. He’d not expected the Fallen Principality to fight back. He’d  _ never  _ fought back before.  _

_ Those thoughts certainly passed through his mind in a rush for the remaining moments that he had a mind to think  _ with _ .  _

_ Z stared, emotionless, as the black eyes in front of him went blank and thick, oozing ichor spilled down around his hands. The hellfire dagger the demon had worn on his belt was now embedded in his brain by way of the small of his throat. Black blood gurgled from his lips. His body shook violently.  _

_ Z lifted a hand to the creature’s face, held his head steady, and ripped the blade free, splattering blood all over the floor and himself. The demon that would have had a bit of fun torturing him fell to the ground, convulsing. Not dead - a hellfire blade would not destroy a demon - but in quite a great deal of pain of which he was incapable of voicing with certain parts of his brain currently missing.  _

_ Z turned away and left him. There would be many more before the day was ended.  _

_ “ _ That’s it, angel… Keep going… _ ” _

_ It passed in a veil of blood and shadows. He worked his way through Hell room by room, level by level, moving forward, refusing to look back. Occasionally a surprised demon would appear before him to block his way. He didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate. He told a tale of loss with his stolen blade, painted the walls with murals of his pain. He left a trail of viscera everywhere he went.  _

_ He drowned the halls of Hell in blood and cries for mercy. _

_ “ _ Just a little farther, my love… You’re nearly there… _ ” _

_ He could sense the presence of Earth growing nearer. There was a way out somewhere nearby. No way of knowing where on Earth he would come out. No reason to give a fuck. _

_ He was there, within reach. He could practically feel the fresh Earth air on his face. If it had been any other voice that shouted to him he may have ignored it and gone through the gate. But that particular voice made a muscle twitch in his eye, his teeth grind together in distaste, and a beautiful, loving voice speak in his head.  _

_ “ _ Just one more, angel… Won’t hurt… Just this one more before you go…”

_ Z turned, eyes dark and black and fathomless. The Duke of Hell stood there with his own blade clutched tight, a furious grimace on his disgusting face.  _

_ “How did you do it?” Hastur demanded. There was pure rage rolling off him in waves. “How did you escape the pit? It’s not possible!” _

_ Z sniffed. Stared down his nose at the grubby, grody excuse of a creature. “Evidently it is,” he responded simply.  _

_ The Duke lunged forward, a roar on his lips. “You should be broken!” he shrieked. “You should be a worthless pile of shattered shards on Hell’s floor! You shouldn’t even be able to  _ think _ , never mind take action!” _

_ Z blinked once, slowly, almost lazily, before regarding Hastur with cold, hollow eyes. “You were always the type to crave vengeance,” he drawled, twirling the hellfire blade in his hand. “You’d think you would understand how limitlessly powerful it’s draw can be.”  _

_ The Duke may have had a retort, may have continued to make demands, to shout meaningless ‘should’s’ and ‘shouldn’t’s’. He may have even actually attacked, taken it upon himself to take the escapee down.  _

_ He never got the chance.  _

_ Z’s body moved as gracefully as it had when he was a soldier of Heaven all those many millennia ago. He danced around his prey like a savage artist, the dagger his brush, the demon’s body his canvas. By the time he was satisfied with his masterpiece all of Hell had heard the Duke’s screams was cowering away from whatever monstrous maestro had conducted them.  _

_ “ _ Lovely, angel… Truly a work of art to give nightmares to all the bad little demons… _ ” _

_ Z turned away from Hell secure in the knowledge that he would never return. Any demon who dared attempt to retrieve him would be sent back in as many pieces as he could carve them into.  _

_ He expected the number was quite a bit higher than one might guess. _

_ He stepped through the gate, moving seamlessly from the dark, dank despair of Hell into a nearly blinding sunlight. For a moment he recoiled, throwing an arm across his face to block the worst of the glare.  _

“You’ve got your demon eyes on, love… Take a breath… Remember what being human-shaped was like…”

_ He breathed. Clenched his teeth. Tried to remember his human corporation - that soft, light, pleasant creature he’d once been - and saw only shadows of memories. He closed his eyes and snapped the fingers of his free hand. Breathed again. Opened his eyes.  _

_ With reduced pupils that were of more-or-less human design, he peered around at his surroundings. The sun was still far too bright, but he could see fine if he squinted. He was in some kind of alleyway between stone buildings, but he could hear the excited babble of humans very nearby. He thought he heard snippets of English, but there seemed to be many more voices speaking something else...Arabic perhaps? It had been such a long time since he’d heard human voices… _

_ He’d taken three steps toward the babble of voices when the lovely voice in his head whispered, “ _ You’ll cause quite a scene if you walk out there like this, angel..”

_ Hmm...yes...perhaps.  _

_ Z snapped his fingers again and his pale, naked corporation was wrapped in a soft white hoodie sweater and lounge pants. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he’d have never been caught dead in such clothes before. He strangled the little bastard voice and moved on. _

_ It was a bazaar. Humans of every shape and size milled up and down the long, open-street market, shouting and laughing and haggling. There were displays covered in jewels and chotskies of varying qualities, silk tents from which floated coils of sweet-smelling incense, and food stalls wafting the scents of all manner of local and international treats. Z strolled slowly past them all, heedless of the way locals and tourists alike stared at him in curiosity and alarm. He hardly even noticed their presence because he suddenly felt- _

_ He felt… _

_ He felt… _

_ He… _

_ ...felt… _

_ “Ice cream! Ice cream here! Nice cold treat for a lovely day!” _

_ Z’s dark eyes turned slowly. The young human man at the stall was grinning happily as he spoke, but upon meeting the Fallen angel’s eye a quiet tremor went through his body, his face paled, and his smile vanished. Z couldn’t help but begin to wonder what about his appearance was bothering the local humans so. He glanced down at himself.  _

_ Ah. His blood was soaking through the newly summoned clothing and demon blood dripped from the hellfire dagger still held in his hand. He supposed he couldn’t blame the humans for their reactions. He casually wiped the blood from his blade on his trousers before hooking it into the waistband and lowering his sweater over it for safe-keeping. Believing this to be compromise enough for now, he lifted his dead eyes back up to the ice cream vendor and let out a moderately annoyed sigh at the terrified look that still took up the human’s face. Some people were just too difficult to satisfy.  _

_ “W-what flavor would you l-like s-sir?” the vendor stammered. He was visibly shaking. It was beginning to be annoying.  _

_ “Vanilla will be fine,” the Fallen Angel decided. It had, after all, been an indeterminate amount of time since he’d last eaten anything. And he  _ had  _ just escaped from Hell. Surely a little treat was in order? _

_ The vendor ruined the first cone by trembling so hard that the ice cream toppled to the ground. His face went an even more sickening shade of white as he hurriedly made another and shoved it toward the blood-covered man in a way that begged for mercy.  _

_ Z quietly accepted the cone and walked away without paying, much to the relief of the vendor who audibly sobbed with thanks. _

_ He considered the ice cream cone the way a dog might consider a bowl of kibble that smelled of wet cat. He thought he remembered a time when he rather enjoyed such things as ice cream. That time seemed such a long time ago now, but he couldn’t see why he shouldn’t still… _

_ His tongue snaked out to touch the creamy white treat.  _

_ “Silly thing.” _

_ His chest tightened, throat closed up.  _

_ Golden eyes regarded him over black lenses. Thin lips quirked into a teasing smile. Short, stylish red hair fluttered a little in the breeze.  _

_ “If you wanted this flavor, why did you get strawberry?” the apparition asked with a smirk. It held out its own cone. “Ah well. You can have mine angel.”  _

_ Z’s ice cream fell to the ground, splattering against the side of his foot.  _

_ The apparition had gone, but the tightness in his chest remained, the ancient memory searing through his body.  _

_ The days events seemed to all come crashing down upon him at once, as though seeing them through another’s eyes. He’d broken from Hell, maiming and massacring as he went. He’d  _ been _ in Hell because he Fell from God’s grace. When he Fell, another had Risen. And that other...that other was now… _

_ His gaze fell to the ruined ice cream on the ground at his feet.  _

_ “Maybe I should try something else…” _

_ He waited...and waited… _

_ The lovely voice in his head didn’t respond.  _

_ He wandered the city - Cairo, he’d worked out - until night fell. He was aimless. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be, no reason, no...purpose. _

_ Why had he even bothered leaving Hell, he found himself wondering. What had been the point, really? There was nothing here on Earth for him now. He no longer felt any connection to the humans who skittered across the surface of the planet like bugs. He’d been torn away from Heaven, no longer connected to the warmth and power of the Host. He had no desire to do Hell’s work on Earth, not after all they’d done to tear him apart both inside and out.  _

_ Now that he was out, now that he was  _ here,  _ he had no function, no motive, no ambition. _

_ Perhaps he would seek out some holy water - and oh, the flicker of memory that thought brought felt like hot sulfur poured down his throat - and release himself from this wretched existence once and for all.  _

_ He was somewhere in the tourist district when a familiar smell wafted toward him in the gentle evening breeze. He lifted his nose to it subconsciously, not recognizing it at first but knowing instinctively that it meant something important. He spotted the other being in the same moment that the scent triggered a flicker of recollection.  _

_ It looked female, pretty and blond, tall and hippy, but what it was, in truth, was an angel. An angel strolling down the street without a care in the world, tall and proud and content in its existence.  _

_ Her contentment offended Z. It grated at the back of his mind, caused his teeth to grind together. How dare this ethereal bitch be alive and  _ content  _ while he himself stood there without a single hope to his name. How dare she walk there, provoking the emptiness in his soul, the gaping, oozing wound left by the loss of- _

_ “ _ What if she was one of the ones who did it…?”

_ Z sucked in a breath, both grateful for the return of the lovely voice and mesmerized by what it had suggested.  _

“You don’t know… You don’t know which one did the deed… Maybe there were many of them… Maybe they made a game of it… Maybe they took turns, drawing it out as long as possible…”

_ Z could feel the fire erupting anew in the place where a beautiful heart had once, long ago, burned bright. His whole body began to flare with it, this realization that any of them could be responsible.  _ All  _ of them could be responsible… _

_ All of them deserved to pay.  _

_ His fingers fluttered beneath the hem of his sweater, running feather-light along the hilt of the hellfire dagger hidden there. Carving his way out of Hell had been...rewarding...but while those demons had tortured and tormented him and molded him into something infinitely far gone from what he had once been, it was the  _ angels  _ who had taken from him the only thing that truly mattered.  _

“You could make them pay, my love...my angel...you could make them all pay…”

_ The pretty blond angel turned and strode through the door of a fancy-looking hotel.  _

_ For a moment wings as black as night flickered into existence and then were carefully hidden back away.  _

_ Z  _ smiled _ .  _

_ He pulled the hellfire blade into his sword hand and crossed the street with purpose.  _

* * *

**Present Day**

Z hovered over the red-haired angel for a long time, watching quietly until every last possible lingering sign of life had drained from his body. His chest was still. The blood from his wound had stopped pulsing and was now only oozing gently. His eyes had gone beautifully glass-like; empty orbs staring up at Heaven above. 

_ Lovely… _

The white-haired demon carefully cleaned his blade with a handkerchief from his pocket and set it lovingly into his backpack before giving his raven-like wings a firm shake and banishing them back to the ethereal realm. 

The night was silent but for the deep breath and satisfied sigh of a truly accomplished murderer. 

Before he turned to leave the site of his most recent offering, dark eyes landed back upon the face of his victim. The eyes...the hair...they prodded insistently at something in the annals of the demon’s mind. “Interesting…” he murmured to himself. “He does resemble...him...somehow.” 

A soft, almost tender smile played across the killer’s angelic face as he brought his hands together, almost in prayer. “My dear, I’ve killed another one for you,” he whispered to the voice in his head. It hadn’t spoken to him in some time, but he knew it was there, watching, praising his good work. “I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are right now.”

Gloved hands pressed to scarred lips and released to blow a kiss toward the starlight above, before Z turned his back on the nameless angel’s remains and walked off into the night.

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, uh...again, I'll understand if you guys hate me now, but please don't. lol I promise that things are going to get better eventually!
> 
> I thrive on your love, so please let me know what you think!  
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!


	5. Tear This Blade From My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should be impossible.
> 
> A miracle from God, perhaps? 
> 
> Or just another excuse to torture and torment Crowley until there's nothing left?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think it was over, did you?  
I realize that it's been ages since I updated this fic, and I do apologize for that. I've had so many ideas lately, and I got distracted, most notably by "In Silence Our Secrets Lie", which has been my most popular story ever. (Thank yoooooou!)  
But now that that has come to an end, it's back to the business of pain and angst and heartbreak. I hope you're prepared!
> 
> NOTE FOR FANS OF MY FICS:
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

There had never been an agony quite as profound as this one. 

_ No _ , a little voice in the farthest reaches of his mind whispered,  _ It should be joy. He is alive...he is alive...he is ALIVE… _

Alive, yes...but at what cost? 

Those empty grey eyes still seemed to be staring at him, unblinking, uncaring. There had been no recognition in those eyes, no sympathy, no hesitation, not even the tiniest hint of a memory of the being he’d once been...the being Crowley loved more than existence itself. 

The Archangel woke with tears streaming down his face and a throbbing ache in his chest that was only partially caused by the ghost of the blade that had entered him there. 

He must have made a sound, because the figure that had been peering out the single window in the room whirled, eyes wide, and closed the distance between them in two quick strides. Phanuel’s face appeared over Crowley’s, their otherworldly beauty twisted by the mixture of concern, confusion, and disbelief on their face. “You’re alive,” their tight voice breathed. “Dear God Almighty, you’re alive.”

Crowley refused to meet her gaze. His hazy eyes stared straight up at the pristine white ceiling above him while his long fingers curled into the white sheet that lay over his prone body, crushing the fabric in his fists. “Tell me you didn’t know,” he hissed, barely a whisper, a flash of rage just barely restrained as his entire body trembled with the desire to let it explode. “ _ Swear _ to me that you didn’t know it was him.”

Phanuel drew in a sharp breath. If Crowley had been looking he would have seen the flash of understanding mixed with genuine fear in their eyes. “It  _ was _ him then…” A soft, breathy declaration of shock. “I caught a glimpse of him just before I found your corporation, but I thought...I couldn’t believe…Oh, Crowley...”

Crowley’s fingers flexed and tensed, claws shredding through the sheet, the sharp sound of the fabric tearing a clear threat. His gaze did not shift, but his jaw clenched, fury easily seeping through, wrapping protectively around his heart to shield him from the anguish. “ _ Tell me _ ,” he bit out, enunciating every word carefully, “ _ that you didn’t know _ .”

Since they’d met, Phanuel had always been so adept at controlling their emotions, but a surprising kind of pain was on their face in that moment. A deep, trembling breath preceded the response. “I swear upon my eternal soul that I did not know that he is alive, nor that he is who he is. May I be cast from Heaven and left to burn in perpetuity if I am lying.” Their shoulders sagged, gaze drifting down to their own hands twitching against the edge of the bed. “Crowley, please believe me. I did not know.”

Neither angels nor demons required the intake of oxygen - those who chose to breathe did so only to liken themselves to humans for the purposes of blending in on Earth - but Crowley had long become accustomed to the action, and right now he was breathing deeply, raggedly, desperately, as though there wasn’t enough oxygen in all of the universe to satiate his need. 

“Tell me... _ who _ knew?...someone had to know... _ someone  _ had to know!”

Phanuel’s eyes flashed with sympathy, but also with something rather like dread. It filled Crowley with a sick sort of satisfaction. “No one in Heaven has admitted to anything,” the angel swore with tense fingers over their chest. “Michael is on a rampage, actually. She is insisting that Beelzebub  _ must _ have known something and lied to us on purpose. Gabriel has gone planet-side with several soldiers to demand a meeting.” 

Without realizing it Crowley’s fingers had punctured through the mattress beneath his body, clutching around the shreds of the outer layer of cushion as if it were an enemy’s throat. “I’ll go to Hell myself,” he hissed, chest hot with both rage and pain. There were tears streaming down the sides of his face, but he couldn’t feel them, wouldn’t have cared if he did. He felt a desperate need to rip, tear, ruin, destroy. Anyone he found who’d known about this...this monstrous injustice...would suffer a wrath they’d never have been capable of imagining. Beelzebub had looked him in the eye and told him that his one and only love had been destroyed; he would find the Demon Prince first and strip the flesh from their body piece by piece until they understood the gravity of what they had done. 

Crowley felt, in that moment, more like a demon than he had ever done when he’d actually been one. 

“Crowley…” Phanuel’s voice was soft, careful, treading the thinnest of ice over a sea of hungry beasts. “I’m sure you must be- It must be a lot. But there’s another factor here that you are not seeing.” When Crowley’s jaw and fists only clenched more tightly the beautiful angel leaned out over the irrational Archangel and practically shouted into his face. “You are  _ alive _ , Crowley! You took a  _ hellfire dagger to the heart and you are alive! _ ”

There was very little, truly, that could have drawn Crowley’s attention away from the roiling tempest currently raging within him. Phanuel’s words managed the impossible. 

The Archangel rose from his pillow, retracted his right hand from the mangled remains of the bed, and lifted shaking fingers to his bare chest. His memory helpfully provided the sight of bright red blood, blooming vibrantly across his chest and dripping off his trembling fingers. He recalled falling to the ground, a wet bubbling flowing through his corporation’s lungs. He felt the burn, the scorching, hissing burn that blistered the core of his existence. 

Those eyes...those eyes staring down at him without a hint of recognition, without the barest, most minuscule hint of it…

His fingers clenched against his chest, wishing he could reach inside himself and rip out the offending bit that sent shockwaves of torment all through his being with every pulse. 

“He...he  _ killed _ me…”

Phanuel waited, cognizant of the significance, realizing what those words meant to the broken and battered remains of the Archangel laying in the bed. Eventually, however, it had to be said: “But he didn’t. Somehow, despite all logic and reason and everything we know about ourselves and the way God made us, you survived.” The words were slow, deliberate, spoken carefully in a way that they hoped would manage to get through the storm of Crowley’s mind. “Your corporation was destroyed, but somehow  _ you _ simply returned to Heaven, unscathed.”

It was the wrong word to use, but the flash of anger that brightened Crowley’s eyes only lasted as long as it took him to take three slow, deep breaths. “How?” he asked when he could bite the word out. 

“We have no idea. It should be impossible. We can only assume it relates to your connection with- That is, the only other angel who ever survived hellfire was Aziraphale, so…”

It was like some cosmic joke that only Crowley was in on. Suddenly he found himself chuckling, shoulders bouncing, stomach clenching. Phanuel’s voice trailed off as the laughter grew louder...and louder...and louder, until Crowley was practically screaming like a madman, tears streaming down his face. 

“Yes...yes, of course!” he gasped between bouts of humorless mirth. “Yes, he did indeed! He absolutely survived stepping into hellfire! Yes!” 

He was painfully aware of the way Phanuel was staring at him as his hysterics broke down into gentle sobs, but thankfully there were no questions. At least, not yet. 

“Look,” the other said, a sigh deep in their chest. “I understand that you have a lot to consider right now, but I feel that I should warn you-” Phanuel’s gaze drifted even as Crowley’s finally turned their way. “-the other Archangels have been waiting for you to wake so they can descend on you with their new plan.”

A single golden eye twitched. Without necessarily realizing it, Crowley had already come to the same conclusion that the others had surely discovered for themselves. 

“All of the other angels on Earth have been pulled back, putting as much distance between them and the Ang-” Phanuel paused, made a throat-clearing sound, and backpedalled. “Between them and  _ him _ as possible while still keeping a vague link on his general location.” Dark eyes pulled themselves back with a significant effort to meet Crowley’s. “They want you to go in alone and take him out, one way or the other.”

Crowley felt like laughing. Crying. Screaming. Pulling the crisp white sheet up over his head and refusing to ever come out again. 

Yes...yes, of course, it was the obvious conclusion. Only one angel had ever survived the Angel Slayer’s wrath, so why wouldn’t they insist on sending that theoretically impervious angel back to take him on again? Why risk the immortal lives of  _ other _ angels, when this one particular angel could hypothetically face the psychotic, murderous demon as many times as necessary to subdue him? Never mind that the angel in question was deeply, irrepressibly in love with that demon. Never mind that every inch, every  _ atom _ of that angel’s being, body, and soul belonged to that demon, now and forever more. Never mind that the angel would rather suffer all the torment the Universe had to offer than cause that demon even a single brief moment of pain. Never mind that looking into those eyes again and seeing the lack of recognition, the lack of connection, the lack of  _ love _ , would destroy the angel over and over and over again…

“You can refuse to do it,” came Phanuel’s voice, soft and almost disturbingly understanding. Their hands were folded delicately in front of them, their gaze hanging on the sheets where Crowley’s claws had torn through them. “It certainly won’t go over well with the others, but I will back you up, help explain why it is a terrible idea. However-” A pause, long enough for Crowley to have already guessed what would be said next. “-you must understand that anyone else who goes...will not be considering any option past ‘kill on sight’.”

It was, of course, the only thing that could possibly guarantee Crowley’s involvement. Phanuel knew it, Crowley knew it, and the other Archangel’s certainly knew it as well. However-

“He’ll be destroyed regardless,” Crowley hissed, knowing even as he said it that he would do whatever it took -  _ whatever _ it took - to keep that from happening. “Heaven is hardly likely to just forget the angels he’s already-” He swallowed hard, unable to say it aloud, unable to consolidate the image of  _ his _ angel with the dark-eyed demon who killed without mercy, without a second thought. “Heaven won’t allow him to live,” he settled on. 

Phanuel seemed to consider that for a long while. Crowley knew it was a show. Phanuel had certainly already known this and come up with a response long before this conversation. 

“Perhaps,” came the eventual agreement. “But perhaps not. If my hunch is correct, someone Downstairs hid his continued existence from us for a reason, and if that reason was to weaponize him-”

“No.” Crowley’s dismissal was swift and broached no argument. “He would have never-” He closed his eyes; tried and failed to picture Aziraphale being  _ trained  _ to be this way. A Fallen angel was never quite the same as they’d been before, but there was simply no way  _ Crowley’s _ angel could have changed so much that he would do such disgusting work on Hell’s behalf. Something much worse had to have happened to him than being  _ recruited _ . “There’s zero chance he’s doing this because  _ they  _ want him to.”

Phanuel frowned, considering. “What is your theory, then?”

Long fingers found a throbbing head and stilled there, trying to will away the painful pulsing. From behind his eyelids Crowley saw those eyes again, disturbingly emotionless, a spark of psychosis. He remembered the blond demon’s words:  _ How could you possibly be my Crowley? Your lot killed him, remember? _

“They told him I was dead.”

Phanuel blinked. “What?”

Crowley’s fingers had found his chest again, digging into the flesh there, wondering if it was possible to rip out the core of himself and examine the damage visually. He imagined there would be cracks and tears, bloodied gashes and black scorch marks. It would be a mangled, unrecognizable thing, he thought. A day ago he would have thought it was impossible for any further damage to be done to it, and yet-

“They told him - convinced him...torture, probably - that Heaven destroyed me. He’s not working for Hell. He’s on a crusade of his own design. Any angel he can get his hands on as recompense for killing me.”

There was a long silence. Phanuel was clearly computing this theory, poking it for holes, but Crowley was certain that he was right. He’d heard the Angel Slayer’s promise, after all.

_ I’ll kill you all, you know. One by one, even if it takes the rest of eternity. I will kill you all for what you did to my Crowley. _

“Well that is simply one more logical argument for it to be you, then,” Phanuel was saying, seemingly to the room in general. “If anyone is able to get through to him-”

A jagged, dissonant sound interrupted the angel’s thoughts as Crowley’s fingers punctured the mattress beneath him again, deeper this time, his claws squealing against the metal springs in the core of the thing. 

“He didn’t recognize me.” Saying it aloud felt like an admission of defeat, like a deathbed confession, like those words alone should tear the Universe asunder. “He  _ killed me _ because he  _ didn’t fucking recognize me! _ ”

If Phanuel was annoyed by the profanity, they didn’t let on. “Then you’ll just have to  _ make  _ him recognize you,” was the insistent response. “If you are willing to try, that is,” was added a moment later, a little more sympathetically. 

Crowley had little doubt that his form was radiating a perfect storm of emotions, a wave of erratic energy that would surely devour Phanuel if they lingered near him too long. He wondered, idly, in a dark place in the depths of his mind, whether he could build the storm, guide it and feed it and make it grow, until it was explosive enough to take all of Heaven down with him. Perhaps if he did that Aziraphale would be satisfied and return to himself. It would be worth it, he thought, even if he wasn’t around any more to see it. It would be worth it to know that the real Aziraphale was done there, alive and well...

“Of course I’m willing to try,” he eventually growled. “I won’t let anyone-fucking-else touch him.” The words were punctuated by a glare designed with the singular intention of making Phanuel understand exactly how serious this claim was. It was a promise, a pledge, a blood pact issued against his own immortal soul. “I will  _ not  _ let  _ anyone-fucking-else  _ touch him.”

Phanuel held that gaze for a long time, long enough for Crowley to wonder if there was reconsideration happening behind those eyes. It would do no good. The pact had been made. There was no going back on it now, even if Crowley had to tear his only Heavenly friend to shreds to enact it. 

“I will speak to the others,” they said, slowly, a barely perceptible note of concern in the otherwise stoic voice. “We will fast-track you a new corporation and provide weapons. I will see to everything. Feel free to rest a while longer, and come find me when you are ready. I will do my best to make sure no one bothers you until then.”

Crowley knew that he should be grateful for whatever assistance that would be provided. He knew that Aziraphale -  _ his  _ Aziraphale - would express gratitude, would smile and bow his head and perhaps extend his hand in thanks. Crowley knew this, knew that he should do the same, but he couldn’t bring himself to that place. Instead, he simply nodded, shifted, and lay back down on his side with his back facing Phanuel. 

He listened to the sound of footsteps moving away. A door opening, closing, a murmur of voices from the other side of it. 

He thought of the weapons that would be provided to him, knowing that he would be expected to kill at all costs. 

He thought of grey eyes, open and empty and ruthless. 

He curled into a ball, clutching the shredded remains of the sheet to his chest, and tried not to think about the being he loved and adored and  _ needed  _ more than anything thrusting a silver blade unfalteringly into his weeping heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think? How is Crowley going to navigate this new mission he's been shackled with? I thrive on your love, so leave me a comment below! <3
> 
> NOTE FOR FANS OF MY FICS:
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	6. Make Me Feel (Make Me Rage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon discovers that the one thing he thought he had left has been warded so that he may never touch it again.
> 
> An angel prepares himself to face down the only being he has ever truly loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pain and agony continues, my friends. Guard your hearts well. And if you're able to get through this one without breaking, consider checking out my Patreon, where Chapter Seven is already available. Just go to my blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com and click on the Patreon link to the right side of the page. Enjoy!
> 
> NOTE FOR FANS OF MY FICS:
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

If asked, Z wouldn’t have been able to tell you exactly when the wealth of emotions that had inhabited the angel Aziraphale’s heart had shut down and locked themselves away. It had been self-defence, plain and simple. The creature that he’d once been (and the creature that he now was) would never have survived the torments that had been bestowed upon him had he not discarded those useless things that kept his heart pumping, a lover’s name in every beat. 

He would only have been able to tell you that it had been some indeterminate length of time, some unnoticed passage, since he had felt anything so powerfully that it made his bones ache and his flesh writhe. 

He  _ felt _ now, in this moment, standing a safe distance across the road from a place he’d once known, once loved, still desired (would always desire) for his own. 

He felt  _ rage _ , pure and cold and dripping black. 

The bookshop across the road mocked him, teased him, tormented him, laughed at him. 

_ No _ , he realized with a fresh flash of fury,  _ Not the shop...the one who took it away from me.  _

He could  _ smell  _ the angelic power in the air, cloaking, hiding, holding, keeping the shop away from him, inaccessible. He was so near, so close, only a few casual steps away from reclaiming what had been his, was  _ still  _ his, the one thing that had indisputably  _ belonged  _ to him, but he couldn’t enter, couldn’t touch, couldn’t even  _ approach _ . The spells were powerful, woven with single-minded intent, the caster perfectly aware of what they were doing and determined to do it thoroughly, leaving no holes. The shop was hidden from human eyes - from curious minds and sticky fingers - and warded against demonic essences. The moment Z stepped a single inch closer he could feel the heat rising from within his chest, threatening to burn him out from within, promising to devour him, assuring him that there was no survival in this endeavour. He would  _ not  _ be granted access; not so long as he remained as he was, broken and ash-colored and infused with Hell’s brand printed on his soul. 

He growled, low and loud, hands clenched into trembling fists. Several early-morning human travelers twitched, glanced his way, did their best to walk as far from him as possible. He couldn’t have cared less for their fears, their anxieties, or their judgements. He was a ball of explosive anger pressed into a human form and seeking a world to destroy to assuage his fury. 

He had returned to London for precisely this, this one thing he had left in the world he had spent six thousand years living in and loving. Oh, he had found work ( _ necessary, bloody, magnificent work)  _ to do along the way, but always his mind was on this, on here, on coming  _ home _ . His  _ true  _ home. The home that he had made for himself, that he had loved and protected and shared with-

And yet, the angels had taken even this from him. Not in a ball of fire, not in the cruel snap of miracle-hot fingers, not even in the simple human way of closing and clearing and removing all traces of what had once been. No. That would have been too kind for their ilk. Instead they left it here for him to find, a tombstone staring at him from the heart of consecrated ground. A thing he wanted, needed,  _ owned _ , but would never be allowed to touch again. 

He didn’t realize that hot, incensed tears had begun to stream down his face until one exceptionally brave human approached, a look of cautious concern on her face as she asked the question they were all undoubtedly thinking: “Sir, are you alright?”

His eyes met hers, and he didn’t know what she saw there, but her skin paled, her lips trembled, and in the space of a terrified heartbeat she was gone, hurtling back along her chosen path as quickly as her high-heeled feet would take her. 

Z stared at the bookshop a bit longer, long enough for the morning sun to begin to burn eyes that had become accustomed to darkness, and made a decision far calmer than the frenetic vibration of his body would have suggested. 

He would find a place to nest for the day. He would rest, let these foolish emotions even out into something more malleable, something he could work with. He would wait quietly in the shadows for the slightest hint of an angelic presence. 

And whatever poor sap happened to wander into his web first would experience the full extent of his displeasure. 

* * *

“I am  _ not  _ taking that.”

“You will, and you will  _ use _ it if necessary.”

Crowley’s glare was a thing of pure vitriol. Of all the angels in Heaven, why did  _ Gabriel  _ have to be the one to supply him with weapons with which to return to Earth? Phanuel stood behind, looking genuinely apologetic. Crowley was quite certain that they’d meant to do this themselves, but as usual Gabriel insinuated himself where he was neither needed nor wanted. He held the bottle of holy water in Crowley’s face, silently daring him to see what would happen if he didn’t take it. 

“And what if I don’t?” the redhead asked with a snarl, more than willing to wager on that dare. “What do you think you can do to me that’s any worse that what I’ve already volunteered myself for?”

There was a brief moment - just a flicker - of something like sympathy in those violet eyes before they turned cold and commanding again. “Do not test me, Serpent,” the Archangel growled. “I will happily send someone else, someone who knows what needs to be done.”

Crowley’s response was a winter-cold stare, golden eyes disgusted and accusing. “You would ‘happily’ send more angels to their deaths just to spite me?” he hissed. 

Violet eyes flared dark and fierce, but Crowley would be left to wonder what Gabriel might have said next, because a calming hand landed upon the Archangel’s shoulder, a soft voice at his ear. “Let him try it his way first,” Phanuel said quietly, a suggestive tone, an inceptive plea. “Surely he has  _ earned _ that. Surely the fact that he yet lives is a sign from our Mother. Let him  _ try _ .”

Crowley could see the resistance in Gabriel’s face, the desire to hold tight to his hatred, to punish this abomination of a demon-turned-angel, this miscreant who had ruined all his hard work over thousands of years and then come ‘home’ as if he’d never left. But he also saw wear, fatigue, and a desperate desire to be done, be gone, be left alone. Few others ever saw it, few others were ever  _ allowed _ to catch so much as a glimpse of it, but Crowley had seen it often since returning to Heaven, as if he wasn’t worth the energy it took to hide it. Gabriel was  _ tired _ . Bone tired, one might say, if angels normally possessed bones. 

Somewhere along the line - and Crowley thought he had an inkling as to when and where - Heaven’s most diligent Archangel had lost his faith. Perhaps not all of it - not enough to Fall, for example - but enough to be oh, so very, very tired. 

“Fine,” came the soft, defeated word, barely loud enough to be heard. “Fine, whatever. Do it your way. Just...just do  _ something. _ ”

Crowley was understanding, if not at all sympathetic. He knew what Gabriel had been dealing with these past three decades. The End of the World that never came had left innumerable flocks of angels confused, lost, and - for the first time in their existences - dreadfully  _ curious _ . For the first time in millennia, angels were asking questions again, reconsidering their place and purpose in the universe, and many of them turned their new-found curiosity toward Earth, toward the swirling green-and-blue marble in the night sky that the antichrist child had chosen to side with in defiance of the supposed ‘Great Plan’. 

More angels were exploring Earth than ever before in the history of the planet, and they were being slaughtered for it. 

After all they’d been through in the past, Crowley didn’t have the stomach to reassure Gabriel, but he did focus his gaze on Phanuel and gave a slight nod. He scooped up the items he’d actually agreed to prior to the argument and turned on his heel, sick to his stomach at what he was about to do.. 

A shaky, “Good luck,” in Gabriel’s voice wafted Crowley’s way as he strode from Heaven toward an unknown fate. 

* * *

Z felt him the second his essence arrived in the Earthly plain. It was a bit of a surprise, if he were being honest. Night had barely fallen and he’d somehow expected to wait much longer. He knew there were other angelic presences out there; he could feel them on the periphery of his senses, like a constant annoying hum in the back of his head, or a little tickle in his throat that refused to come out as a proper cough. He  _ knew  _ they were there, but he also knew that they were very carefully keeping their distance. When he moved, so did they, always vigilant to keep the same distance between him and them. 

Fucking cowards, every one of them. 

But this new one - this one that arrived barely moments after the sun had finished setting over London - this one was close. This one wasn’t simply holding its ground and keeping a metaphysical eye out. This one was coming for  _ him _ . 

Well. That certainly made things simpler. 

The Angel Slayer strolled through London with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. To the humans who subconsciously adjusted their strides to avoid the dark shadow of his presence he appeared almost casual. Calm. Unconcerned. In a way, he was, because he was a predator who understood his prey and had no doubts that his hunt would be a successful one. 

Though his path may have appeared random, he walked with intent, listening to the buzz of the angelic presence as it carefully made its way closer and closer to him. By the time he arrived at his destination - a dark theater that had been closed for the season - he had allowed his lips to curl up into a grim facsimile of a smile. 

“You’re quite the fool,” he said aloud, admiring the way his voice carried across the well-designed stage. “Not that I don’t appreciate you making my job easier, but it’s almost as if you lot never learn anyth-”

He turned. Stopped. Frowned. Stared. Understood quite suddenly why the presence he’d been listening to felt somehow familiar. 

“This is...unexpected.”

It was the same red-headed angel, without a doubt. The face, the eyes, the long, lean body...even the suit. All of that could have been faked, of course. It was only a corporation after all, something Heaven could mold into whatever design they required. But the  _ essence  _ that was housed within that vessel...Z could  _ taste  _ it, even as his fingers twitched with the memory of his blade sinking through soft flesh. Somehow or other, this was the same angel.

“Hello Aziraphale.” The voice was soft, but it carried thanks to the acoustics in the well-engineered theater. Eyes the color of sun-kissed wheat stared back at the demon, rife with numerous emotions. 

Sickening.

“You called me that before,” Z sighed, terribly put out by the annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you? I shed that name ages ago.” It occurred, as he was saying it, that he’d never bothered to introduce himself to any of the other angels before this. After all, he’d only been about to obliterate them anyway. This was a strange new situation, however, so he adapted. “My name is Z now.”

The angel winced, as if hearing the name physically hurt him somehow. “You’ll always be Aziraphale to me,” he insisted, his tone disgustingly sentimental. “You’ll always be…” There was a pause, silence broken only by the slight hitch of the angel’s voice. “You’ll always be my angel…”

Hot, acidic bile rose up in Z’s throat. For the second time in less than a day he felt the repugnant swell of  _ feeling  _ burning in his chest, threatening to boil over into madness. “Don’t you call me that,” he spat as his body began to shake against his will. “Only  _ he  _ was allowed to call me that-”

The foolish angel actually closed his eyes at that. His shoulders seemed to be trembling. Z saw, with a mixture of confusion and frustration, that there were tears running down his pale face. “Aziraphale...it’s  _ me _ ,” he said (begged, pleaded, implored). He opened his eyes; the sheen of wetness in them made the gold shine a little brighter. “Please, I- It’s really me... _ I’m Crowley _ , angel…”

A lesser being would never have been able to follow the speed of the movement, but the red-headed angel saw it in barely enough time to counter it. The violent ring of metal on metal echoed throughout the theater, bouncing back and forth, redoubling over itself. A screeching scrape of razor-sharp edges followed as Z pushed back away. 

The demon and the angel stared at one another. Z’s fingers clenched around the hellfire dagger that had served him well up until now. The redhead’s longer fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a short sword, its blade faintly glowing with the power of a blessing. Incapable of destroying a demon, but perfectly capable of doing a lot of damage. 

The thought of it made Z laugh out loud, the strange, somewhat-psychotic sound filling the theater, pressing against its walls, pushing to its boundaries and back again. “You can’t hurt me, silly angel,” the demon huffed hysterically. “If you had any idea what I’ve been through… There is no physical or emotional pain that you can bestow on me that will be any more affecting than the sting of a wasp in comparison to the suffering I have already endured.”

The statement was nothing more than that - a statement of truth - but it made the redheaded angel twitch and falter, his sword arm lower a few inches. He looked somehow paler than he had a moment ago. “W-what did they do to you down there-?” he whispered, horrified. 

And Z stopped laughing to level a demented grin at the angel. “ _ Nothing  _ compared to what your lot  _ took  _ from me, my dear.”

He lunged again, his attack mirroring a sacrilegious mockery of the Heavenly warrior he had once been. The redhead countered with less than a hair’s width to spare, the force of their impacted blades sending bright sparks across the length of the stage. Z let himself fall back once more, amused despite everything. None of the others had put up any kind of an actual fight. Not that he’d really given them an opportunity to, but regardless… 

“I don’t want to fight you, angel,” the redhead insisted, a plea in his voice. 

Z circled him in a wide curve, making his way counterclockwise around the stage. “Then you shouldn’t have come,” he sniffed. “But I’ll warn you now that I’m rather in the mood to make a mess, so if you were hoping for a quick death you’d better give me a reason to strike hard and fast. Also-” He straightened up and leveled his dagger so that he was pointing at the redhead while he narrowed his eyes. “The next time you call me ‘angel’ I’m going to be tempted to cut your treacherous tongue from your mouth.”

The redhead’s eyes widened and a strange look passed over his face. It was almost as though he was about to be sick. 

_ How pathetic.  _

“Did you know they even took my bookshop from me?” Z mused aloud, reminding himself of what he’d planned to do. “They couldn’t even let me have that one thing, that one last vestige of my former existence.”

Golden eyes softened, somehow both surprised and sad. The blessed sword lowered again. “Actually-” he began, but stopped, seemed to consider his words, swallowed. “I didn’t- I mean, I was just trying to protect it… obviously didn’t ever expect you to-”

This time Z hadn’t even made the conscious decision to move. A rage that flared up as hot and fast as flash paper took hold of the demon’s mind; in the following blink of an eye he found himself on his hands and knees, stradling the redhead’s body, the hellfire blade pressed, sizzling, against the angelic flesh that covered a trembling throat while his free hand all but crushed the wrist holding the blessed blade. 

“Are you telling me-” the wild-eyed demon asked in a terribly soft voice, “-that  _ you _ are the angel who warded my shop?”

Golden eyes, wide with fear, blinked as the redhead fought for words. “I- P-please ang- Aziraphale, please, that wasn’t my intention, I-” He sputtered and choked and stopped speaking altogether when Z pressed harder, allowing the hissing, smoking dagger to sink a few millimeters into the flesh beneath his Adam’s apple. 

“How...fortuitous…” the demon announced with a quiet grin. “My dear boy...you and I are going to have a long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE FOR FANS OF MY FICS:
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	7. Times We Once Shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon has questions that an angel will answer. Refusal will be met with swift retribution. 
> 
> But what happens when the angel offers information that the demon did not ask for, revealing secrets that only one person could possibly know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

** _Over two hundred years ago…_ **

_ When Crowley finally set foot inside A.Z. Fell & Co (rather more than a few hours later than he had originally intended to), he found Aziraphale waiting for him with something like relief on his face.  _

_ “Crowley!” came the exclamation, hissed out in a desperate kind of way that made the demon’s chest tighten. “Oh thank goodness, my dear boy, I didn’t know what-” The angel flustered, waving his hands about in that adorable way he did when he was anxious, and finally settled on, “What did you  _ do _ ?” _

_ It was all Crowley could do not to smirk (too much). He waved a hand in a dismissive kind of way, the way one would accompany with the words, “Oh it was nothing, really.” But what he actually said was, “Everything alright now then?” _

_ The question did nothing to tamp down Aziraphale’s flustering. If anything, it seemed to make him worse. His skin turned the pleasant shade of pink that Crowley knew meant an argument was coming, and his hands clenched into stiff fists at his sides. “ _ Crowley _ ,” he practically growled. “Gabriel was all set to reassign me back to Heaven! Then he wanders off to find himself some new suits, and all of a sudden he’s rushing back here to tell me that plans have changed, that I’m staying here after all because I’m ‘the only one who can deal with that snake’.” With his word said, the angel crossed his arms firmly across his chest and glared for all he was worth. “Now I’ll ask again: what did you do?!” _

_ Crowley was chuckling by then, not at all concerned that Aziraphale was actually, properly mad at him. “That is a secret that dies with me, angel,” he insisted, then quirked a lip. “Or doesn’t, as the case may be. More preferable that way, if I’m being honest. Which I try not to.” Before the angel could go on another tirade, he slinked around the vibrating bundle of creams and tartan, leaning in close and hissing with more than a bit of teasing in his voice. “Are you saying that you aren’t happy that you’ll be staying on Earth?” _

_ Aziraphale, predictably, let a bit of the tension go out of his body at the question. “Well, no, I mean- Of course I want to stay here, but-” _

_ “And that’s what I want too,” Crowley interrupted with a toothy grin, before adding, “Doubt I’d ever be able to convince  _ Michael _ , of all angels, to continue the Arrangement.” He winked then, just to fluster Aziraphale a little bit more.  _

_ “Well...I suppose-”  _

_ The angel barely had a handful of contemplative words out before there was a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates being pressed toward him at the end of a black-clad arm. Aziraphale took them automatically, but only seemed to realize what they were a few seconds after they had found their way into his arms. When he finally did his eyes lit up and a smile finally spread across his face. “Oh! What’s this then?” he asked, as though it weren’t obvious.  _

_ “Little ‘grand opening’ present,” Crowley responded, and for once he said it with sincerity, not a lick of sarcasm or a smartass tone to be heard. In the same breath he swept his now-empty hand behind his back, coming back with a gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers that immediately filled the shop with delightful scents. “Congratulations on finally opening your shop, angel.” _

_ There was a look, and a smile, and a long moment of silence during which the two beings simply regarded each other without saying a word. It was hardly the first time they had experienced such a moment, but there was something especially thrilling about this one. _

_ Crowley had thought that he was going to lose his angel, sent back up to Heaven where he would never see him again. But he’d taken care of it - because what else could he do? - and the unspoken ‘thank you’ was shining in Aziraphale’s eyes now, that light threatening to spill over and devour them both. _

_ “Come on, angel. Let’s have a drink to celebrate. Trust me, you’re going to love those chocolates, I got them from-” _

_ So they wandered off to the back room of the brand new bookshop, a place they would spend so much more time in over the years, and Crowley smiled, genuinely happy and relieved that his angel was staying here with him.  _

_ Maybe, someday, he would even tell him exactly what he’d done to make Gabriel change his mind… _

* * *

For several moments upon waking, Crowley wasn’t sure where he was. The ignorance was, honestly, a bit refreshing. For those few moments he was blissfully unaware, the memory of all that had happened these past few days (and these past few decades) hovering just out of reach. 

Then a searing, white-hot pain hissed across his chest, and he was brought back to reality in a haze of burnt flesh and screaming agony. 

His head had jerked back violently when the burning hit, but as it receded again his chin collapsed forward toward his chest, his neck and shoulders too exhausted to withstand the weight. He hissed in little gasping breaths and screwed his eyes shut, fighting to work through the scalding heat bubbling the flesh covering his breast. 

When he was able to gather his wits well enough to contemplate his situation, he found that he’d been tied to a chair, feet lashed to the wooden legs, hands tied together behind the crossbar in back. He wriggled his arms, just a tiny bit to test his bounds, and felt a steady hissing burn against the skin of his wrists. Some kind of demonic power infused into the ropes, then. 

His shirt had been rucked up out of his trousers and was hanging open at his sides, leaving his chest bare and vulnerable. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know that there was going to be some kind of awful wound where that burning flare of pain had touched, but he opened them all the same, and cringed at the mess he was faced with. From collarbone, midway down toward his navel was a perfectly straight line cut into his flesh. A thin trickle of blood oozed and dripped down his stomach from the end of it. The edges of the cut were sizzling, as though they had been aflame, and the flesh flaring out from either side of the wound was red, bubbling, and blistered. 

The weapon that had been used to create such a wound was clearly demonic in nature, so it was no surprise, really, for Crowley to lift his gaze and find a platinum-haired demon watching him, twirling a bloodied hellfire dagger between his fingers. 

“Welcome back, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, his tone a bastardized mockery of affection. “Did you have a lovely dream? How terrible for you to go from that to this.” The dagger ceased its spinning, came to rest mere millimeters from the throbbing flesh of Crowley’s chest. “Let’s make things a little more pleasant for you, shall we?” He leaned in close, dipping his head a bit so that his gaze and Crowley’s were locked, even with the latter’s head all but collapsed. “I am going to ask questions. You are going to answer. Truthfully, though I assume that should be obvious. If you answer truthfully, you get a few more lovely moments of reprieve. If you refuse to answer, I cut you. If you lie to me, I cut you. If you speak without being spoken to…” He paused, a prompting look in his eyes. 

Crowley’s voice was barely a hoarse whisper. “You cut me?” he wagered. 

Aziraphale’s smile was horrible - so like the angel he had once been, and yet cut through with madness and cruelty. “Good boy,” he allowed, and reached up with his free hand to give Crowley a little patronizing pat on the cheek. 

And fuck if Crowley didn’t lean into that touch for a moment, desperate despite everything to feel his love’s skin against his own again. Then the hand was gone, the only link left between them the hot blade hovering far too close to Crowley’s chest. 

“First question,” the platinum-blond demon announced, his voice almost pleasant. “How did you survive having your heart pierced by a hellfire blade?”

Crowley immediately cringed. If he’d been given half a moment to think about it he was sure he would have seen this particular question coming, but being presented with it so suddenly, and under threat of further damage… Was there any possible way he could answer that wouldn’t incite more of Aziraphale’s cold anger?

He felt more than saw the imminent shift of the demon’s body as he took too long to respond. Before the blade’s tip could reach his body he blurted out the truth as he knew it. “I don’t know. No one upstairs knows. I swear it.”

The answering hum and frown from Aziraphale suggested displeasure, but it also seemed as though it was the response he had been expecting. “I suppose those fools are calling it a ‘miracle’,” he huffed, speaking more to himself than his captive. “God’s intervention, perhaps.” He let out a bark of humorous laughter. “As if She gives a damn about any of us. As if She would take two seconds out of her busy fucking schedule to help one of her children.”

Crowley kept quiet as a seething, slithering, visceral anger seemed to drip off of Aziraphale, causing the air around them to ripple and writhe. It took great willpower to refrain from speaking, so great was Crowley’s instinct to reassure his former angel, to tell him that he was sure She hadn’t meant for him to Fall, that there had to have been some mistake, that Aziraphale was the best of all of them and didn’t deserve anything that happened to him…

How foolish he was, to be bound and under threat of torture and yet still his every thought was bound to taking care of his angel…

“Second question,” Aziraphale said quite suddenly, his current tirade forgotten. “What have you done to my bookshop, and how can it be reversed?”

Crowley nearly sighed with relief; that was an easy one. “Nothing permanent or damaging,” he promised, voice soft. “I enchanted it against human sense, so that they don’t see it or remember it existing. They simply walk past. I warded it against demons so that they can’t even approach.” He cringed at that and lowered his eyes. “I swear, I didn’t...I thought you were gone, so I had know way of knowing…” He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes even further, staring at the terrible wound weeping down his belly. “I just recharged the wards, so it will take a bit of effort to bring them back down, but it can be done, so long as I’m given a bit of time."

A hum of consideration came from Aziraphale. Pale fingers twitched; the dagger’s tip traced along the length of the open wound, not touching, but hovering so close that Crowley could feel the air between it and his flesh sizzle. 

“Could anyone else remove the wards?” a quiet, dangerous voice asked.

Crowley’s instinct was to shake his head, but the movement may have brought the blade against him, so he spoke instead. “No. They’re attuned to my essence. If I were gone they would be impossible to take down until the power slowly faded away over time.”

Another considering nose. Another flick of twitchy fingers. “You’re not lying about that to make sure I keep you around, are you?” The warning in the question was quite clear. The blade’s tip made contact with the open flesh of the wound - just the smallest kiss of a touch - and it sent an electric shock of pain through Crowley’s body. His head shot up, his eyes wide and full of something like betrayal. 

“I’m not, I swear,” he gasped through the burn. “I swear! Aziraphale, I wouldn’t lie to you, please, you know that!”

Contrary to the intention to calm the demon, his words only seemed to enrage him. “ _ Stop calling me that _ ,” he growled, teeth flashing. Without a hint of mercy he twisted his wrist and pressed the flat of the dagger against the length of Crowley’s wound. 

The agony was so intense that the angel nearly passed out again. His entire body tensed and spasmed as though being electrified. His skin was on fire, muscle and tendon seeming to bubble beneath the surface. His wrists and ankles strained against their bounds, causing the cursed fibers to dig into the flesh and ooze fresh, bright red blood. 

It seemed to last for an eternity, but realistically was only a few moments. When it was done there were scalding tears streaming down Crowley’s face and his heart was racing fast enough to be fatal to a human. His vision was hazy and full of bright spots so that he couldn’t see, but he could feel Aziraphale’s hot breath against his cheek as the demon spoke. 

“My name is Z, stubborn angel… You had best remember that, if you wish to avoid any more unpleasantness. Do you understand?”

Crowley didn’t respond right away, unable to find the breath to speak nor the energy to shake his head. His inability was, evidently, unacceptable, if there was anything to say about the way Aziraphale’s powerful hand wrapped around his chin, lifting his head and squeezing hard enough for Crowley to feel his jaw crack. 

“ _ Do you understand, stubborn angel? _ ”

He could have just nodded, even if only a tiny inclination of his head. He could have forced his lungs to work long enough to utter the single word: yes. He could have done nothing and hoped that Aziraphale would be enraged enough to simply put him out of his misery. 

Instead he lifted his wet, unseeing eyes, locking them on the face of the black shadow that had once been the kindest being he had ever known. He parted his lips, and with the slightest wisp of breath, he barely whispered the words:

“I fucked with the suits…”

The silence that followed was a palpable, visceral thing, but after several long moments during which Crowley continued to struggle to regain his ability to breath, an entirely bewildered voice asked, “W-what?”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed. With the pressure of the pads of Aziraphale’s fingers against his face, he let the words flow from his lips, a breathy sigh of memories. 

“Followed Gabriel to the tailor's place… Cursed all the suits to be bright orange and lime green… Influenced the owner to tell him it was the big new trend... that a fashion guru called Crowley was spreading the style all over Britain…”

He hardly noticed, being that his entire corporation had gone numb, but the fingers around his face had slackened and were trembling slightly. A tiny voice, barely a whisper: “That’s...I...you-?”

“You asked…” Crowley continued in labored breaths, feeling somehow drunk and hungover at the same time, partway to unconsciousness. “You asked...but it was so stupid...didn’t wanna admit it was the only thing I could think of…” It took a monumental effort and energy that he didn’t have, but the angel managed to lift his golden eyes - wet with tears - to focus on the wide, shocked ones staring back at him. “Couldn’t let them… Couldn’t stand back and let you go back up...leave me alone… Couldn’t...lose you…”

His head listed forward - nearly falling - when the hand pulled away from his face as if the touch had suddenly become a scalding flame. He just barely managed to keep it up so that he could force his hazy eyes to focus on the demon before him.

The change to Aziraphale’s face was extreme to the point of almost causing him to look like an entirely different person. His eyes had gone almost comically wide, the darkness in them lightened just enough to show a hint of the color they had once been. The anger and hunger to cause pain had all but melted away to be replaced by confusion, horror, and just the tiniest spark of something like hope. 

For a few long moments it seemed that the blond demon had become a statue, neither breathing, nor blinking, nor so much as twitching. Then, quite suddenly, he lunged forward, powerful hands gripping Crowley’s shoulders and squeezing just a bit too hard. Those wide eyes, flicking through a plethora of emotions one after the other, stared at the angel in front of him, taking in every minute detail. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse; it cracked as he fought to get the words out. 

“The night the world didn’t end,” he choked out, squeezing Crowley’s shoulders harder as he went. “When I started panicking because I was certain we were both going to be destroyed- What...what did you say to me then?”

Oh, how Crowley wished that he could stop the tears that insisted on falling from his eyes. The vision before him, though it swam in a watery haze, was more like a dream now than a nightmare. It made his chest tighten with desperation. He blinked and sniffed ( _ hoped, longed, prayed _ ) and let the memory tumble from his lips. 

“I told you that it would all be okay. I told you that I wouldn’t let them touch you. I told you that I would walk through hellfire and holy water and the wrath of God herself if it kept you safe.”

Crowley’s head had fallen against his chest as he spoke, his eyes drawing nearly closed while he recalled that moment. The way Aziraphale had cried had been both heartbreaking and beautiful. They had embraced. Crowley had felt like he held the entire Universe in his arms, and he had sent up a promise to Her - that he would protect the one he loved no matter what she threw at him. 

He had failed. He’d broken his promise, both to Aziraphale and to Her. The reminder had his shoulders shaking as he sobbed openly, the tears dripping from his chin to soak his lap. 

The hands around his shoulders pulled back and away. There was a strange sound; a combination of a cry of pain and the sound one makes before retching. 

“It can’t be…” 

The voice was so soft, so terrified, so clearly, gloriously  _ Aziraphale _ that Crowley gathered all his remaining strength to lift his head once more. The sight he was met with was nearly as heartbreaking and beautiful as the one he had been presented with more than thirty years prior. Aziraphale’s eyes, while still far too dark in color, were wide and wet. A hand had found its way to his mouth, and as Crowley watched the second one came up as well. He took a step back, eyes somehow going even wider, a strangled sound bubbling up from his throat. 

Crowley longed to go to him, to wrap his arms around his soft body, to press his cheek against those fluffy white curls, to whisper gentle reassurances in his ear. 

“It’s you-” came a broken voice, muffled by the hands pressed against it. He took another step back, and then yet another. “It’s really you- And I… Oh lord, I-!”

_ You killed me.  _ Crowley’s traitorous mind completed the thought against his will.  _ You drove a hellfire blade through my heart and watched me bleed out on the ground of a dirty alley with a smile on your face. _

It was almost as if Aziraphale had heard the thought. A shattered cry erupted from him. Tears began streaming freely. His whole body seemed to be shaking with the anguish of the realization. 

It was so painful in so many ways, and yet...Crowley had hope. In his mind’s eye he saw Aziraphale rushing forward to pull him into a tight embrace. He saw strong fingers ripping away his bonds so that they could wrap their arms around one another. He saw soft lips finding his own in a desperate kiss, tear-streaked cheeks pressing together, whispered words of apology and declarations of everlasting love. He saw reconciliation. He saw himself and his only love together again, able to move forward again because all they truly needed was one another. 

He was certainly not expecting Aziraphale to suddenly turn and run, ignoring Crowley’s pleading shouts of his name and leaving the angel bound and beaten, alone in the darkened theater with hot tears burning down his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	8. The Clothes Make the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that clothes make the man. 
> 
> Perhaps they make the angel as well?
> 
> Or perhaps what makes any being is much more complicated; something that one needs to fight for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

Crowley didn’t remember passing out. 

His head was fuzzy, his body aching, his heart a ragged wreck of a thing that seemed to have been shredded by razor-sharp claws. It was dark. It had been dark before. Did that mean that he’d been out for only a few moments? Or had a day (days?) passed since the keeper of his soul had turned and run away from him? 

He was on the floor, he realized slowly, dragging himself to his hands and knees. The cursed ropes that had held him fast had lost their power and fallen in pieces around the legs of the chair where he’d been cut and tormented and-

He shook his head. He wouldn’t think of that. Couldn’t. He needed- He needed to-

If the ropes had lost the demonic energy they’d been infused with, perhaps that meant he’d been here a while. At least a day, surely. 

_ He left… He knows that I am who I say I am, and he left… _

It took longer than it probably should have for him to notice the folded piece of cardstock laying on the floor near him. It faintly glowed with a hint of Phanuel’s essence. Crowley snatched it up and sat back on his heels to read. 

_ The Archangel’s won’t let anyone go to England while both your and his presences are still evident. I am sorry. You are on your own for now. But I have been keeping a close eye on his movement for you. The signal is difficult to track, but when he left you last night he went back to Soho and has not moved since. He should not be difficult to find. Good luck, my friend. -P _

Crowley let his hand hover over the message, feeling the strength of that hint of Heaven infused into the cardstock to ensure it found its intended receiver. It was fresh, likely arrived within the past hour. So Aziraphale had left him here approximately one day ago. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to focus on the “left him” part of the thought. 

Okay...Soho… He definitely shouldn’t be difficult to find there. Perhaps he’d gone back to the bookshop to see if he could find a way in. 

Before he could let the tidal wave of doubts and insecurities drown him, Crowley pushed himself to his feet and buttoned his shirt up over the still-gaping wound on his chest. A quick attempt at a healing miracle failed to affect the damage that had been done by a hellfire blade, which was expected. At least it had stopped bleeding in the time he’d been out, so with a quick snap of his fingers he dispelled the dry rust red on his clothes and set out.

The streets of Soho were as busy as ever, even on a bleak, humid night without a single star in the sky. Crowley stalked the streets slowly, a hand hovering over his chest where his wound burned with demonic heat. Several passersby stared openly, wondering at the strange man walking a few steps at a time, staring hard into each building as he passed, looking pale enough to be a breath away from death. Crowley ignored them all. He’d considered using a small miracle to make himself invisible to the curious humans, but decided it best not to announce his presence before he could catch up to Aziraphale.

The bookshop was precisely as Crowley had left it. He could feel a vague demonic power somewhere in the general area, but it was not within the scope of the one place he may have expected Aziraphale to go.

The angel moved on. 

He made his way past shops and restaurants - closed signs hanging in dark windows - and more than a few establishments lighting up the night with flashy neon and thumping bass beats. Past groups of young, flamboyant drunks and dark, homeless shadows hiding in alleyways. 

It was near a strip of clothing shops that the demonic presence grew stronger and… Crowley sniffed and licked his lips, as though scenting the air in the area. It was definitely Aziraphale, but something was different; something had changed. It felt almost...flustered? Anxious?

Bit by bit, careful to keep his essence as quiet as possible, he followed the twitchy energy-spiking presence until he was standing outside a speciality tailor. The sign was flipped to the ‘Closed’ side, and the shop proper was dark with the silhouettes of the various displays, but there was a light on somewhere in the back area, and it was there that Aziraphale’s presence was strongest. 

The tiniest flicker of angelic power opened the door for Crowley and held the bell above it still and quiet while he carefully slid inside. 

From here he could hear muffled voices in the back, one of them frustrated and demanding, the other quiet and terrified. He moved as quickly and silently as he could, hoping to sneak up on Aziraphale and- And _what_? Take him down? Try once more to talk to him? Risk being killed again - maybe permanently this time? 

There was no time to think about it. Or perhaps he didn’t  _ want _ the time to think about it. 

“No, no! It’s all wrong! It’s  _ all wrong! _ ”

Crowley bit his cheek. The voice was clearly Aziraphale’s, but neither the old nor the new version. This Aziraphale sounded more panicked than the old one had sounded when the world was about to end. He was growling and snapping, while somehow also giving off the impression that he was about to burst into tears. 

The small, scared voice that responded was fairly young, male, and sounded as though he was  _ already  _ crying. “I-I’m sorry Sir, I j-just don’t t-think I have what you’re l-looking for!”

Aziraphale’s answer to that was hysteria tinged with fury. “I don’t think you understand the severity of my current situation,  _ sir _ . Now cease your bloody collywobbling, because neither of us is leaving this shop until you have brought me something that-”

Crowley had heard enough. It was one thing to be cautious in the face of the unknown variable that Aziraphale’s psyche had become, but it was another thing entirely to stand here and listen to his angel ( _ demon _ ) tormenting some poor, hapless human all for the sake of-

He’d burst into the room to put an end to whatever was happening, but ended up stopping dead in the doorway in a mixture of surprise and confusion. 

The back room of the shop looked as though a tornado had gone through it. There were trousers, shirts, vests, ties, shoes, and more tossed in every direction and on every surface. The human shopkeep - whose eyes widened when Crowley entered, as yet unsure whether this was a rescuer or another tormentor - was standing in the center of the room with several articles and hanging from his arms and a fabric tape measure around his neck. 

And there was Aziraphale, wild-eyed with alarm and panic, his pale curls sticking in every conceivable direction. His blood-spattered clothing had been discarded, replaced by tan trousers that were a few shades too dark, a blue button-up and cream waistcoat that were both many decades too modern, and a bow tie that was far too ordinary in a plain, flat white. 

He was…

He was trying to…

He was trying to replicate his old outfit…

There were several voices in Crowley’s head shouting at him all at once. A few of them sounded like Gabriel, Phanuel, and the other archangels he knew were waiting for him to take care of this enormous problem that had arisen. Those voices were screaming at him to go on the attack, erratically pointing out that the hellfire dagger was laying discarded on a table between the two of them and that he could surely get to it before Aziraphale, who seemed frozen in his surprise. 

At least one of the voices was babbling nonsense, trying to reconcile the new information that had been presented to him with the overall situation he found himself in the middle of. 

But the voice that was the softest was also somehow the loudest. It was the one that cried out in a combination of joy and agony to see Aziraphale like this, dressed in clean clothes that were passingly similar to the kind he’d worn for so long, right down to the bowtie. That voice let out a soft whine, a desperate kind of noise, a barely audible recognition of both pain and hope.

He didn’t realize that this voice was actually his own - pushed out past his own lips after working its way up his own throat - until Aziraphale flinched and took a step back. His hands found each other in front of his chest, worrying together in a way that was so familiar, so...so  _ Aziraphale _ that Crowley nearly fell to his knees watching it. 

“C-Crowley-” The demon’s voice was high and ridden with anxiety. His eyes were flicking around like those of a wild animal that had found itself quite trapped. He looked to be considering the emergency exit in the far corner, but it was as far from him as it was from Crowley, and in the opposite direction of his dagger. “You weren’t supposed to-” His head moved back and forth between the angel and his own body. He swallowed audibly and continued to back himself up as though, in lieu of an escape, he thought that he could somehow hide from sight by shrinking into the corner of the room. “I’m- I’m not  _ ready _ -! You can’t-” His voice was getting higher as he spoke, rapidly devolving into a teakettle-like whistle of pure panic. “I need to make myself- I have to- I have to-!”

The demon’s back hit the wall behind him, eliciting a strange, strangled yelp as his hands rose to grasp at his hair, pulling painfully hard. His eyes were wide, the pupils shrunken, a definite sense of insanity shining in them. “You can’t  _ see  _ me yet!” he whined as a few bright tears began to appear in the corners of his eyes. “I’m not- I’m not  _ right-! _ ”

Crowley had been stuck to the spot while Aziraphale broke down further and further, but now he found himself moving very slowly forward. Without looking away from his ultimate target, he waved a hand toward the confused, terrified human. “Go home,” he ordered. “Go to bed. Forget this has ever happened and dream of whatever you like best.” Without a moment’s hesitation the shopkeep dropped everything in his arms and took off for the front of the shop. Crowley heard a door open and close and breathed a silent sigh of relief that at least this one innocent was out of danger. 

He crept forward a step at a time, watching Aziraphale carefully. The demon seemed to be having a complete breakdown, his wet eyes wide and unseeing as they stared down toward the floor. His strong hands were yanking hard at great handfuls of hair, pulling hard enough to threaten ripping them clean from his skull, and he was muttering under his breath to himself. Crowley caught a few words and felt his heart seizing up in his chest. 

“-can’t let him see- have to be an angel- have to be  _ his _ angel- can’t let him see- can’t let him know-”

When he was near enough to touch if he stretched his arm out Crowley stopped and lifted a tentative hand, careful to treat the being in front of him like the wild beast he seemed to have become. “Aziraphale,” he said as softly as he could. “Can you look at me, Aziraphale?”

The muttering ceased immediately. The eyes went somehow wider, but didn’t lift from where they were glued to the floor between them. There was a tiny, barely there movement as he shook his head ‘no’. 

It hurt. There was no doubt about that. But he’d already been through so much hurt already, what was a little bit more?

“Okay…” he allowed. He licked his dry lips and took a deep breath. “Can you...can you just listen for now then?”

A pause, quite a lot of heavy breathing, and a tiny nod. 

Crowley took another breath, let it out slowly, and struggled to work out what he was going to say. It was so much more difficult than he could have possibly imagined. How many times had he wandered the bookshop over the past three decades, wishing and longing for just one more chance to see the angel he loved, to speak to him and tell him all the words that had gone left unsaid? How desperately had he prayed to a God who never seemed to be listening for one more moment, just enough to hold him close and feel the warmth of his body against his own?  _ Fuck _ , how badly he wanted to just rush forward and wrap the shaking, wide-eyed creature in front of him in his arms, promise him that it was okay, that everything was going to be just fine…

But that wouldn’t necessarily be the truth, would it?

Somehow, eventually, the angel’s mouth managed to form words, though they seemed to come from him with little in the way of conscious thought. “Were you...were you trying to dress yourself up for me?”

Another long pause, slightly slower and less-heavy breathing, and another tiny nod.

Crowley swallowed. For a moment his eyes closed as he fought against the rapid, confused beating of his heart. He left them closed, thinking that perhaps it might be easier to speak if he did so. “You don’t have to-” Another swallow, a heavy sigh. “It’s...it’s okay if you don’t like those old clothes anymore.” 

What on Earth was he saying? Of all the things- Aziraphale was a fucking  _ demon _ . Not only a demon, but the  _ Angel Slayer _ , a phantom who had appeared on Earth several months ago with the seemingly single-minded desire to disembowel any angel he came across. He’d killed… He’d killed  _ Crowley _ , regardless of whatever unknown miracle had kept him existing in this world. He’d become some kind of monster...he’d taken pleasure in tormenting Crowley - in causing him  _ pain  _ \- before he’d known who he was. 

So why the bloody fucking Hell was Crowley talking about  _ clothes _ ?

He almost let out a bark of mad laughter when Aziraphale actually answered. In a small, somewhat-manic voice he said, “I need...I need to  _ fix _ myself… I need to go back, become what I was… Need to go back to the angel you loved…”

Crowley opened his eyes at that. They were immediately filled with hot tears when he saw that Aziraphale was looking back at him with a gaze like a petrified mouse. 

_ Fuck it all. _

Moving slowly but steadily, wary of any sudden movements from either side, Crowley spread his arms, stepped forward, and enveloped the trembling demon before him. Aziraphale’s arms remained curled up against his own chest as though clutching desperately to hold himself together, but Crowley pushed away the sob that wanted to wrench free and simply held on for dear life while Aziraphale shivered and shook. 

It felt both very right and very wrong. Crowley’s heart and mind warred with one another, taking it in turns to sob in either relief or agony. 

The sun was beginning to peek up over the horizon when the demon’s trembling finally began to abate. Slowly, surely, with Crowley’s patient arms wrapped around him, Aziraphale stilled, softened, and melted sleepily into the other’s body. His breathing had become quite slow. For a moment Crowley thought that the demon had actually fallen asleep in his arms, but when he carefully shifted and looked down he saw dark, heavy eyes still just barely open. Aziraphale’s cheek was pressed against Crowley’s chest, his platinum curls a stress-teased mess atop his head, and he was staring at the curve of the angel’s shoulder as though it held the secrets of the universe. 

With that sight before him, Crowley could imagine, at least temporarily, that everything might actually turn out okay. 

“I’d like to take you to the bookshop, angel,” he breathed softly against the fluffy mess of hair beneath his chin. He cringed a little to himself when Aziraphale twitched at the endearment he’d been using for more than six millennia. “Is that okay?”

There was a long silence. Long enough to make Crowley wonder whether Aziraphale had actually heard, or perhaps fallen asleep after all, with his eyes open. He found himself contemplating whether it was safe to give the demon a little shake, or whether the sudden movement would result in him getting a fist shoved through his chest. The moment the thought passed through his mind he wanted to flog himself for thinking it. 

( _ But it’s a reasonable concern, all things considered… _ )

When Aziraphale finally spoke it nearly scared Crowley out of his wits, despite the words being incredibly soft and quiet: “I can’t get in…”

It took some effort, and perhaps the smallest of miracles, but Crowley somehow managed to keep his breathing calm and steady the beating of his heart. When he was certain he could move without doing anything foolish or harmful he gave Aziraphale a tiny squeeze and let his nose nuzzle into the pale fluff atop the demon’s head. “It’s okay,” he promised. He tried very hard to keep his voice quiet and gentle. “I can modify the wards. Make it so that demons still can’t get through, but your unique signature is seen as acceptable.”

He waited, a little more patiently this time, and after a few long, quiet moments Aziraphale’s soft, strangely-frightened voice said, simply, “Okay.”

Numerous thoughts were running through Crowley’s head at once and it was difficult to single out the really, truly important ones from the ones that he wanted to curl into his chest and weep out onto a cold pillow somewhere. One, however, stood out among all the others. It was treason, he knew, but then again, he’d been the traitor before when it meant protecting all that he loved in the universe.

So he slowly lifted a hand to card tenderly through Aziraphale’s hair, and did his best to ignore the tears of fear and pain and uncertainty that had begun to trail down his cheeks without his permission. “But if we’re going to go there,” he said with a small sigh, “I’m going to need you to do something for me too.”

Aziraphale’s body tensed, only for a moment, and then relaxed again. One of the hands curled up against his own chest unfurled to cling, childlike, to Crowley’s shirt. “What do you need?” he asked, barely loud enough to hear.

Crowley closed his eyes and tried to focus. It was so hard...so remarkably difficult to focus on anything that wasn’t the too-warm body that he was wrapped around, on the desire to sink to the floor with his face pressed into those curls and just cry and cry until he’d wept out enough emotion to maybe,  _ maybe _ , be able to regain some semblance of himself. 

“I need you to mirror my wards,” he explained, knowing as he said it that Aziraphale would surely understand what this decision meant. “I need you to ward against all angels besides me. Can you do that for me?”

And this time - for whatever reason, Crowley couldn’t have possibly said - Aziraphale’s response was immediate. There was a gentle nod against the angel’s chest, and the demon’s voice spoke just a little louder, just a little more confident. 

“Yes, my love. I can do that for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	9. Let Me Undo What I Have Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon make a decision that they know will have consequences, but it is the only true choice. 
> 
> The angel struggles with his feelings and what his choice may mean. 
> 
> The demon sets out with a desperate need to work to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

A pink-tinged sun was just beginning to rise over London by the time Crowley’s wards upon the bookshop had been suitably modified. With a deep, shuddering breath he let his hands fall to his sides and let his forehead press to the shop’s door, allowing the structure to keep him vertical. He was beyond exhausted, both mentally and physically. His eyes burned with the desire to flutter closed. His chest burned with the remnants of demonic contamination. All he wanted was to collapse on something soft and let unconsciousness devour him. 

But he couldn’t. At least, not yet. 

With immense effort, the angel pushed himself off the bookshop door and turned around.

Across the road, standing in the shadow of a bakery, Aziraphale watched silently. He was curled in on himself, seeming to make himself small, as though attempting to disappear. If Crowley were being entirely honest with himself (which, for self-preservation purposes, he was trying very hard not to) he had almost been expecting the demon to  _ actually  _ disappear while he was occupied with the shop. Try as he might not to let his mind go in that direction, he’d been waiting for Aziraphale to either run or stab him in the back since the tailor’s place. The short walk to the bookshop had been an exercise in swallowing down constant bouts of panic, as any tiny twitch from the demon made Crowley’s hackles rush into overdrive. 

He hated it. 

He  _ hated  _ it. 

For six thousand years he had felt nothing but safe and warm in Aziraphale’s presence. Now...now he just didn’t know. He wished there was some way to turn off the negative emotions, to drown them at the bottom of the deepest part of the deepest ocean and never look back. 

Instead he looked at the unpredictable creature across the road from him, sunk into the shadows, watching him with dark eyes that glimmered disturbingly in the early morning sun, and nodded, signalling him to come over. 

Aziraphale approached slowly, step by step, eyes darting in every direction as though he expected an attack at any moment. Crowley watched and felt his heart clench even more. He supposed it wasn’t out of the question that Aziraphale would be wary, expect a trick, an ambush...something. It would be an entirely reasonable concern, given the situation. That didn’t make it hurt any less. 

Funny how he could feel a sense of betrayal over Aziraphale’s guardedness, yet at the same time be ready and waiting for deception to come at any moment.  _ Fuck _ , this...this was going to be so fucking hard…

By the time Aziraphale was standing directly in front of Crowley a look of surprised relief had replaced the wary discomfort on the demon’s face. Accomplishing the approach without his skin beginning to sizzle had clearly assuaged some of his fear. There was a tiny glimmer of hope in Crowley’s heart as he regarded the other regarding the shop. A sense of longing was in Aziraphale’s too-dark eyes, something warmer and much more comfortable than Crowley had seen there yet. 

Still moving with careful deliberateness, Crowley reached back and turned the door handle before gently pushing open the gateway to Aziraphale’s former life. There was a minuscule gasp - barely audible - from the demon as the little bell over the door frame jingled to announce their presence. 

With one last fearful glance at Crowley - who did his best to smile but feared he hadn’t quite been able to hit the mark - Aziraphale took one step forward, then another...and then he was inside the shop, walking across the main floor as if in a dream. 

Crowley watched diligently, both curious and concerned about how the demon might react. He closed the door carefully behind them and relocked it - more a habit than anything, since anyone who was physically able to approach the door would find themselves soon wandering away and forgetting that it had ever existed. The angel took only a few steps forward before settling himself against the cash counter, both to watch quietly and to allow himself a moment’s rest. 

Aziraphale moved like a wraith through the shop for some time. He didn’t say a world, barely made a sound. Hands lifted so that trembling fingers could run along book spines, shelf edges, and the tops of little chotskies he’d collected from around the world. Every so often he would stop at a certain object - his ancient old gramophone, a favorite tea mug, a book of poetry from the middle ages - and stare at it long enough that the sun will have moved considerably in the sky before he continued on. For the majority of the inspection he was careful to keep his back to Crowley, but eventually he found his way back to the front of the shop and faced the angel with heavy eyes threatening to spill over at any moment. 

He didn’t meet Crowley’s eye, and when he lifted his hand as though to reach out for him he soon hesitated and lowered it again, but the angel’s chest felt wonderfully (horribly?) tight when the demon whispered, “It’s exactly as I remember...thank you...so much…”

There were so many things that Crowley wanted to say then. 

_ It was the only thing I had left of you. _

_ I couldn’t let anyone else get their filthy hands on it. _

_ I needed to preserve the proof that you existed in this world.  _

_ I missed you. _

_ I missed you so fucking much. _

_ I love you… _

_ I still love you… _

His throat and tongue were dry, his lungs and chest burning painfully. When he managed to find the will to speak the only words that came out were, “You’re welcome.”

A long moment of awkward silence followed, until finally Aziraphale turned away, hands wringing, muttering, “I suppose I should get to work on the mirror wards…”

Crowley watched him turn and very, very nearly reached out to him. His fingers twitched forward, remembering the ghost of their recent embrace. Something held him back. Several somethings, perhaps. Instead, those same fingers curled into a loose fist before releasing as he breathed a deep sigh. “I-” he began, and immediately stopped when Aziraphale’s body tensed. He wasn’t even certain what he’d been about to say, but seeing that instant rigidity made him cringe and clamp his teeth shut. After a tense moment and a slow breath he managed, “I’m going to go get a bath. You-” He paused, not wanting to sound accusatory. “Will you be okay down here by yourself? You know that you can’t leave, right?”

Aziraphale stood still, hands tangled into each other in front of his stomach, head bowed, staring at the floor. It was impossible to tell whether he was considering Crowley’s words or simply lost somewhere within his own mind. Eventually, however, he gave a single small nod and just barely breathed, “I won’t go anywhere. I will deal with the wards and...and I’ll be here when you are finished.”

The angel watched the demon for several long minutes, watching for any signs to be concerned about, any hints of a possibility of betrayal, and detested himself for every last second of it. In the end, though his gut twisted and writhed at the very idea of leaving Aziraphale alone, Crowley nodded, clenched his teeth so hard that pain shot up both sides of his skull, and walked off toward the upstairs flat. 

* * *

Aziraphale ( _ Z? _ ) didn’t move a milometer until he heard the creaking of the bookshop’s pipes as the bathtub upstairs began to be filled. Until that moment he didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, barely so much as twitched. Once that moment had passed he let out a breathy, shuddering sound akin to a dying man’s death rattle. His hands found their way back up into his already well-tormented platinum curls. Without having any memory of how he’d gotten there he found himself on his knees on the floor, breaths coming in rapid, hysterical gasps. 

_ He’s alive-  _

_ He’s alive and he’s an angel- _

_ I’ve been- _

_ All this time, I’ve been- _

Strong, warm arms around his body and a wonderfully familiar smell had managed to calm the voices screaming inside him earlier, but now that they were apart - even by just a single floor - his heart was beginning to race, his thoughts too many and too loud. 

For just a few moments, his face pressed against his beloved’s warm chest, he had allowed him to believe that the world had somehow become right again. All that mattered was the two of them, together, whatever may come. The rest of Heaven and Hell and the world in between could burn for all he cared. 

But he’d seen…

He’d seen the way his beloved looked at him now. He looked apprehensive. He looked suspicious. He looked  _ afraid _ .

Crowley looked at him as if he were looking at a monster, waiting for it to bare its claws and sink its fangs in his flesh. 

And could Aziraphale ( _ Z?! _ ) really blame him? After what he’d done? After the blood he’d spilled? After he’d taken his dagger and shoved it right through his beloved’s-

He gagged, hard and painful, feeling the dry plains of his throat working against the reaction. If he’d eaten anything in the past three decades he may have wretched all over the bookshop’s perfectly-preserved floors. Instead he gagged and coughed and choked back awful, pitiful sobs until his corporation could take no more and he simply collapsed forward with a soundless cry. 

He lay there, curled up in a fetal position, until he heard the pipes creak once more, signalling that the bathtub taps had been shut off. 

_ Get yourself together you useless waste of breath. After all you’ve done you can’t keep the pieces together long enough to do what he asked of you? Get up. GET UP.  _

Slowly, limbs feeling like hot lead, the demon pushed himself to his feet. He swayed a little, drunk on more emotion than he’d been burdened with in years, but managed to stumble his way to the shop’s door. It seemed as good a place as any to begin. He pressed his forehead to the cool wood-grain, spread his fingers against the smooth glass of the window, and began to let wisps of demonic energy flow out into the place that had been his home. 

_ Do what he asks of you...do whatever he asks of you. Anything he wants. Anything he needs. Then...then…..then……. _

Tears dripped to the shop floor as he worked, sizzling against the hardwood like tiny drops of sulphur. 

* * *

The water was just shy of scalding. 

Crowley curled up against the bottom of the old, claw-foot tub, arms wrapped around himself, letting the bathwater absorb the tears that came and came and came. 

What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t even know anymore. There would be retribution, surely? After all he’d done these past three decades...would that mean anything to those Upstairs? Or would it all come down to this one action, this one clear, unmistakable betrayal? Did he even fucking care? After all, it was all for…

His head crested the surface of the water; a choked, humorless laugh echoed off the bathroom walls. Before the angel knew what was happening he’d sat up, leaning over his knees, laughing almost hysterical as tears continued to pour down his cheeks. 

_ He’s alive… _

_ He’s alive and he’s here with me… _

_ Can that be enough? Can  _ we _ be enough? _

_ After...after everything…? _

“Fuck,” he hissed to himself, the sound cracking as a fresh wave of hysteria broke over him. “ _ Fuck _ ...I had an angel...I held an angel in my arms...and now I’ve found a demon...a demon who...who…” His arms wound around his chest, fingers digging painfully into his shoulders while he sobbed against his knees. The wound burned, an insistent memory, an accusation, a seething, searing reminder that-

That what? That the being he loved more than anything in the Universe had plunged a cursed weapon through his chest, then later used that same weapon as a method of torturing information out of him? That that same beloved being had tortured and killed multiple innocent angels before Crowley had gotten to him? That the being currently warding the bookshop against Heaven had clearly suffered an extreme mental break and might never be properly sane again, nor ever be the same as he had once been? 

Crowley lifted his head and leaned back into the bathwater, wishing that the heat of it could burn the emotions from him. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, not seeing it, but rather seeing through it. “How could You let all this happen?” he whispered toward the sky above. “He was the best angel You had, and now he’s...I don’t even know what he is. Why didn’t You help him? Why didn’t You protect him?” He blinked against the burning sensation in his eyes. “I believed in You, even after You pushed me out. But him? Abandoning  _ him _ like this? I- I can’t-” Without realizing it his hands had curled into fists, which he lifted and slammed against the surface of the water, sending it splashing out over the bathroom floor. 

“I  _ hate _ You,” he hissed, even knowing in his heart that it wasn’t true, not entirely. “I fucking  _ hate  _ You so much, you...you miserable  _ bitch! _ ”

He lay there, loathing everything, resenting the Universe and everything in it, until the water grew cold and the smoky scent of demonic energy wafted all throughout the building. 

* * *

Aziraphale ( _ Azira-...yes...have to be...for him… _ ) worked without pause, breathing his essence into every surface in the shop, winding his hideous demonic power carefully through the beautiful angelic patterns of Crowley’s design. It felt like sacrilege - he supposed it  _ was _ , truly - but he did it all without hesitation, without a second thought, because it was what Crowley had asked him to do. He had to do what Crowley asked him to do. He had to...he had to…

By the time he was confident in the completion of his work he was more physically exhausted than he had been in quite some time. The morning had come and gone, along with the afternoon, and the sun was once again getting low in the sky above London. Out of a habit born of two hundred years spent living here, the demon began to slowly wander the building, closing curtains, checking locks. When there was little left with which to occupy his mind he made his way step by step up the stairs to the flat, wondering vaguely whether a bit of sleep might be a good idea. 

He happened to be directly in front of the bathroom door when it swung open, drawing his attention, and plunging a metaphorical blade straight through whatever he still had that passed for a heart. 

Crowley stood in the doorway, the ends of the towel around his hips clutched in one hand. The skin around his amber eyes and sharp cheekbones was flush red as if he’d been doing quite a bit of crying. His hair hung long and damp around his shoulders. 

_ He’s beautiful… He’s still so incredibly beautiful… _

But…

The horrid wound on the angel’s chest stood out like refuse marring a shining marble floor. It was red and angry, nearly black at the edges where the dagger ( _ ...my dagger… _ ) had singed the sliced flesh. The blood had been cleaned away by the bath, but it was already gently weeping again, a little trail of bright red dripping down into the angel’s navel. 

Without thinking, Aziraphale fell back against the far wall, a hand over his mouth, fighting to keep himself from devolving back into dry heaving even as he was unable to tear his eyes away from the damage he had caused to the one being he loved more than anything in the Universe. 

His heart nearly beat out of his blasted chest when Crowley’s concerned voice reached him. “Aziraphale? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

_ Am I okay? Am  _ I  _ okay?! _

The demon was certain that he was trying for incredulity when he looked back at his beloved, but was just as certain that it was coming off as nausea. His gaze flicked between Crowley’s eyes and chest, unable to look too long into those pained golden orbs. He swallowed. Twitched. Made a horrid sound that was a bit like he was about to begin weeping. Pulled himself (mostly) together. Reached out one shaking hand to close half the distance between them. 

“Let me...let me fix-” His voice was broken and he couldn’t quite seem to get the words out. He looked up, just long enough to see the little, traitorous spark of fear in his beloved’s eyes and immediately yanked his hand back. “I mean- I’m s-sorry- If you don’t want- If you  _ can’t _ -” The last words came out in a rush - “I’m sorry, I won’t touch you again!” - before he turned and made to run away as fast as he could. 

The last thing he expected to feel was warm, water-soft fingers around his wrist, holding him back. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, forcing himself to breathe, begging his heart to function properly, unable to decide whether the hold on his wrist was something to relish or hurtle him closer to hysteria. He kept waiting for some kind of instruction, some hint as to what was being expected of him in this moment, but it never came. So, eventually, mustering every ounce of courage he thought he had left, he straightened his back and turned around. 

Crowley was looking back at him, his golden eyes shining with...grief? The spark of fear had gone, thankfully, but was replaced with a kind of pain that should never, ever be present on such a beautiful face. The sight made hot tears spring to Aziraphale’s eyes and a mental knife twist in his gut. 

He was just about to stammer another apology when a small quiet voice said, “Yes...I mean...please try…” 

_ Please try… _

_ Please try… _

_ Please try… _

Aziraphale’s eyes had wound up closed somehow. He took several deep, slow breaths before forcing them back open again. He didn’t meet his beloved’s eye, but he focused instead on a door at the end of the hall. Very, very slowly, he turned his wrist until Crowley’s fingers released their hold, but immediately wound his own through them and began leading the angel toward the bedroom. 

This room, like all the others, was exactly as Aziraphale remembered it: a perfect representation of the image burned into his soul. A small part of him wanted to curl up on the bed with his tartan throw blanket, pull some of his most favorite books down from the shelf, and pretend that everything was as it had always been. He didn’t need sustenance or the outside world...he could theoretically stay in this room until the end of time, shunning God and all of Her Creation.

But he had a job to do. Something very important. More important than anything else.

He wasn’t certain his body remembered how to be gentle and tender, but he did his best. He drew his beloved toward the bed, let his thumb drift along the back of Crowley’s pale hand, and kept his gaze trained on the sheets in front of them. “Can you-?” His voice broke a little. He took a breath and tried again. “Would you...would you lay down...please?”

There was a moment of silence, pregnant with possibilities, none of which Aziraphale wanted to focus too intently on at that moment. Then, slowly, Crowley retrieved his hand from the demon and crawled onto the bed, arranging himself until he was laying flat on his back, head propped on a small pile of pillows. The angel fidgeted for a few moments, apparently unsure where to put his hands, before eventually letting them rest at his sides. He stared up at the ceiling above them for a few more breaths before tilting his head toward Aziraphale and offering a single, short nod. 

The demon sat gingerly, hands twisting in his lap, mind racing. 

He didn’t know how to do this. He  _ had _ to do this, but he couldn’t fathom  _ how _ . 

_ You aren’t an angel anymore _ , the voices in his head helpfully supplied.  _ Your power isn’t the same as it used to be. Demons don’t  _ heal _ . They only destroy. They rip and tear and maim and mangle...they do not  _ heal.

Only...that wasn’t necessarily true, was it? After all, Crowley had been a demon for the six thousand years they had known one another, and he never ripped or tore or maimed or mangled… In fact, as a demon Crowley had done more for humanity than most angels had ever done. Certainly...certainly that meant that Aziraphale could do this one thing...this one thing for his beloved…

He began very carefully, leaning a little closer, reaching out with one hand. Feather-light, barely even a proper touch, he let his index finger trace the length of the wound, feeling the heat still present within the flesh. The second time around he let the weight of the tip of the finger press against broken skin, examining the wet, tender edges. The third time he concentrated, squinting, and let a small thread of his essence weave out toward-

Crowley hissed and twitched, and suddenly Aziraphale was on the floor beside the bed, forehead pressed against the side of the mattress, weeping a litany of desperate apologies that he scarcely realized he was saying aloud.

_ I’ve hurt him-! I’ve hurt him over and over-! I’m a monster-! I can’t stop-! I can’t-! _

He cried aloud when gentle fingers touched his cheek, but he let them carefully guide his head until he was looking back up into desperately sad golden eyes. 

“It’s okay,” the red-haired angel soothed. “I’m okay. It was just a bit of a twitch. Please…” He paused long enough to bite his lip and swallow hard. “Please try again?”

Aziraphale’s immediate instinct was to pull away, shake his head, refuse, run, get away, get far, far away from his beloved so that he could never cause him harm again. But even as his body trembled, urging him to go, leave, run, he was speared to stillness by those eyes that, despite everything, still held a trace of love in them. He sobbed aloud at the revelation and leaned into the fingers still pressing against his cheek. Eventually he nodded, swiping the tears from his eyes as he followed Crowley back up onto the bed. 

The angel settled back against the pillows again, a soft sigh on his lips. “I promise to tell you if it’s too much, okay?”

_ Yes...yes...okay...tell me...guide me...fix me so I can be what you need me to be… _

Aziraphale nodded once and settled his damp gaze on the task at hand. It took some time, as though his body itself was terrified to make another move, but at some point he lifted a hand and carefully placed it on his beloved’s stomach, just below where the wound ended. Crowley took in a slow breath; Aziraphale took the moment to simply focus on the way the angel’s body moved as the air filled his lungs and left it again. It was...beautiful...the way the muscles moved beneath soft, pale flesh…

_ Fuck _ he was beautiful and warm and perfect and oh God and Satan and all the forces of Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale had missed him so fucking much-

Perhaps...perhaps Aziraphale had been going about this the wrong way. Maybe he could...maybe he should…

His tongue swiped across his lips to wet them. His throat had gone horribly dry. Moving as slowly as a sunflower stretches toward the light, he leaned down, listening for any hint of discomfort from his beloved, and carefully, gently, pressed his lips against the burnt, broken flesh. 

Beneath him the angel shuddered, but when Aziraphale’s gaze flicked up he found Crowley looking back at him with an unreadable expression - unreadable, but not  _ bad _ . So he continued. Inch by inch, millimetre by millimetre, the demon kissed his way along the length of the damage he had caused, breathing not only his power, but his love and devotion into the contaminated flesh. He drew the heat and pain back into himself with each caress, letting it settle down deep in his own gut where it belonged, where it couldn’t hurt his beloved anymore. 

By the time he completed his ministrations the room was dark with the fall of night. By the soft light of the moon filtering through the room’s only window, the demon leaned back and examined his work. The flesh was knit together, pink and new and tender, but beautifully, miraculously healed. He nearly sobbed, but swallowed it back when Crowley’s lovely fingers found his cheek once again. 

The angel’s eyes were wet, confused, swimming in emotions that Aziraphale couldn’t begin to fully interpret, but there was a wonderful warmth in the way those fingers caressed along his jawline. 

Without saying a word the angel shifted so that he was laying on his side and gently pulled the demon down next to him. For a moment Aziraphale panicked - he didn’t deserve to lay next to the angel, he couldn’t, he shouldn’t… - but Crowley’s gaze drew him down until they were laying face-to-face, the angel’s fingers still stroking the demon’s face. 

“Thank you,” Crowley whispered. 

The words felt like being plunged into boiling sulphur all over again. “Don’t thank me,” Aziraphale begged. “Please, fuck...don’t...I-”

Then there were warm arms around him, pulling him close until his head was tucked under the angel’s chin, his cheek pressed against the bare flesh of his chest. Somehow they’d come to be beneath the bed-sheets, tucked in tight and warm. Crowley held him tight, a hint of possessiveness in the way his arms squeezed, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but sink into the embrace, desperate to forget, to imagine, to pretend…

“Shh…” Crowley was whispering against the white fluff of the demon’s hair, and Aziraphale could hear the tears in his voice but fought against the knowledge. “Shh...let’s just...let’s just  _ be _ ...for tonight...just be with me, okay?”

And the response came more naturally than anything Aziraphale had said or done in more than thirty years. “Of course, my love. Anything you need. Anything you want.”

Though they were both exhausted beyond anything either of them had ever previously experienced, neither slept a wink as they lay together in silence throughout the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	10. From All the Forces of Heaven and Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor arrives at the bookshop. From behind the safety of their wards, an angel and a demon face down an Archangel. Crowley makes a choice; Aziraphale shows the rage hiding just beneath the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, you guys; this story has gone far further than I originally expected it to, but I'm pleased with the results. It's an emotional suckerpunch of a fic, but it's also so very different from all the other fics I've been working on that I feel it really evens me out. So I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been reading, commenting, and supporting this painful tale! I love you all, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter!
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

**30 Years Ago...**

_ They had never lain together before. _

_ Oh, there had been many nights spent in each other’s company, many nights of drinking and laughing, of stumbling through the streets of Rome, of France, of New York… But in all those many, many years, they had never once crossed that particular line. There was simply something about being in a bed together - even if laying there was all that ever happened - that seemed too intimate, too special, too dangerous.  _

_ The night of the thwarted Apocalypse, exhausted and pleased and terrified for what would happen next, an angel and a demon returned to a Mayfair flat, hand-in-hand, and by silent consensus headed straight for the bedroom.  _

_ Nothing untoward occurred that night - confessions and first kisses were still several days away at this point - but it was a strangely momentous feeling, laying together in Crowley’s black bed covered in soft silk sheets. There had been a significant distance between their bodies, but two hands met in the middle of the mattress, fingers entwined, pulling strength from one another.  _

_ “They won’t let us go unpunished,” Aziraphale had whispered into the dark. There was a sadness in his voice that spoke of disappointment. He’d believed in Heaven’s light and love, in the truth and righteousness of its intentions… But then, that wasn’t necessarily true, was it? After all, he’d been a ‘bad angel’ for quite some time now, because deep down he had known that his fellow angels weren’t as ‘good’ as they believed themselves to be.  _

_ “I won’t let them hurt you,” Crowley had promised. His voice was laced with fatigue, but his tone was firm and determined. “I have an idea. It’s all there in Agnus Nutter’s last prophecy. Don’t worry, angel. We’re going to get out of this mess.” _

_ It was very telling that Aziraphale - ever so anxious, nervous, desperate for direction - asked no further questions. He simply squeezed Crowley’s fingers in his own and gave the other a small, tired smile. “I believe you,” he had said then, followed by, “I trust you.” _

_ The words had made Crowley’s serpentine eyes burn, his throat ache, as he fought to hold back the tears that wanted so very much to come. He wouldn’t cry. He  _ wouldn’t _ . But oh, how tearfully sweet it was to hear those words from his angel, his world, the only being in the Universe that he needed by his side.  _

_ “I’ll protect you,” he’d whispered then, the words barely loud enough to make it across the distance between them in the bed. “I’ll always protect you, angel. Even from all the forces of Heaven and Hell.” _

* * *

**Present Day**

He didn’t sleep, but Aziraphale drifted in and out of memories as he lay beneath familiar sheets, nose nestled up against the bare skin of his beloved’s chest. He thought of a great many things, both from the ancient and recent past. 

He thought of that first meeting in the Garden, when a beautiful demon had reassured him that he couldn’t have possibly done the wrong thing ( _ Even though, as it turned out, I rather had _ ). 

He thought of golden eyes full of shock and sadness when he learned about the coming flood and the fact that not even the children would be saved. ( _ He saved so many of them himself...overflowing with righteous determination...using the power of Hell to save innocent lives...an enigmatic, beautiful quandary of a creature… _ )

He thought of tired eyes watching a young man he’d befriended be nailed to a cross, and of that same fatigue weighing heavily on him years later when they met in Rome. ( _ All I could do was offer to take him for oysters...it seemed so foolish at the time, but it seemed to do the trick and it made me so happy to see him smile. _ )

He thought of arguments and fallings out, reconciliations and rescues, so many years spent coming together over and over again, sometimes parting but never able to remain apart. 

Then he thought about that day in the park. So wonderful, so perfect, a kiss that one could write songs about but never accurately describe. A kiss and a confession, thousands of years in the making, magnificent in every way...broken by an unwarranted cruelty. The unrelenting draw of Heaven and Hell, ripping them apart, throwing them in opposite directions, the wrong directions, changing them, separating them, destroying what they could have been. 

Aziraphale thought, and he realized that he had been weak. Six thousand years together, growing together, becoming better together, moving toward something important  _ together _ ...and he’d allowed barely three decades of demonic torment ruin it all. He’d become something sick and infected, something that found pleasure in ripping and tearing. He’d tortured and destroyed, and drove a blade through his beloved’s heart, through the very flesh he was currently pressed up against. 

And yet...after all of it, after everything Aziraphale had done, God had seen fit to save Crowley’s life and bring them back together. 

He had to earn the gift he’d been given. 

He had to fix things. 

He had to…

He had to…

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The voice was quiet and gentle, and it made Aziraphale’s blackened heart endeavour to beat again. The demon breathed in deep of his beloved’s clean scent and the unfamiliar warmth of his relatively new angelic essence. 

“I’ll protect you,” Aziraphale whispered. His fingers uncoiled from where they were pressed against his own chest, to press tentatively against the angel’s. “I’ll always protect you...angel...even from all the forces of Heaven and Hell.”

There was a sharp intake of breath above him as Crowley recognized the words that he had once spoken himself. For a moment his body went rigid with tension, but in the next breath he melted, arms tightening around Aziraphale, constricting like the serpent he was underneath it all. “We’ll protect each other, okay?” came the soft, sweet response. 

And Aziraphale nodded while breathing in that beautiful scent again. “Okay…” he sighed. 

* * *

The knock came at dawn. 

It was expected, but unwelcome, and Crowley had hoped that it wouldn’t come so soon. 

He felt Aziraphale’s hackles swell beneath his arms and gave the demon a firm squeeze lest he do something foolish. “It’s okay,” he promised before carefully pulling away to settle those deep blue eyes with a reassuring look. “It was inevitable,” he explained, “but our combined wards will protect us for now.”

Strong fingers gripped at the angel’s body as though he wanted to physically restrain the angel. “They won’t protect us for long,” he hissed. “Not if the Archangels or the Demonic Court decide they want in.” 

Crowley knew this already, of course, but being reminded did nothing to soothe the slow rise of panic that had been growing steadily in the back of his mind since he’d made his decision back at the tailor’s. He knew that the power of one demon and one angel - even a particularly powerful demon and an Archangel - would not be able to hold up forever against an assault from numerous agents of Heaven or Hell. Sooner or later they would get in, and the longer they were kept out, the angrier they were likely to get. 

There was a second knock.

Crowley sighed, grumbled a bit, and pressed a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead before dragging himself out of bed. He was still wrapped in his towel from the night before, but with a half-hearted snap of his fingers he was properly dressed in a grey suit, his hair dry and straight. He couldn’t snap away the fatigue in his eyes, however. 

The angel offered a hand to the demon, tenderly pulled him from the bed, squeezed his hand and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Aziraphale returned the squeeze, but not the smile, which bothered Crowley much more than he would have liked to admit. 

Together they made their way through the flat and down the stairs to the shop as the third knock echoed toward them. 

Crowley knew who it was before he ever pulled open the door, but it still caused a ripple of guilt to pass up and down his spine.

“Phanuel.”

The Archangel looked back at him from the stepway with tired, but resigned, eyes. Their gaze slide momentarily to Aziraphale, calm and considering, before moving back to fix upon Crowley. “I cannot honestly say that I am surprised,” they sighed. “Though I must admit to being a trifle disappointed.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale stiffen beside him and gave the demon’s hand a squeeze to encourage silence. To Phanuel he responded with a simple, “I can’t let Heaven get their hands on him.”

Again the Archangel’s gaze shifted to the demon standing half a step behind Crowley, watching with cold, unblinking eyes. They looked him up and down before pursing plush pink lips in something like acceptance. “You do realize that he  _ murdered _ multiple angels?” they needled, gaze never wavering from Aziraphale’s. “Yourself included?” 

Crowley had to bite back a growl. He wanted to step in front of Aziraphale, to hide him from the Archangel’s blatant stare, but felt certain that the action would be neither welcome nor appreciated. Instead he told Phanuel the truth as he knew it, in as steady a voice as he could manage. “He’s been through a lot. I don’t even know the extent of it, but he-” Crowley swallowed, bit the inside of his cheek, and found himself gazing at the demon beside him. “He didn’t know that it was me,” he said, barely loud enough for Phanuel to hear. “He thought that I was already dead...that Heaven had destroyed me.” 

Aziraphale had turned to look back at Crowley, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and strangely fearful. 

“I would have done the same,” the angel continued, gazing into those deep blue eyes that were so different and yet so very much the same. “When I was told that you had been destroyed...I would have marched into Hell with a holy sword and slain every demon that dared to face me. I would have fought until my last breath and then gone to join you in whatever non-existence God has set aside for our kind.”

There were tiny droplets of tears in Aziraphale’s eyes, a hitch in his breath. His fingers twitched against Crowley’s, making the angel wonder what he would have done had they not had an audience. 

The demon’s voice was quiet and hoarse when he asked, “Why didn’t you?”

Crowley’s sigh was a heavy sort of thing. As he let the breath out it felt somehow as though gravity had tripled upon his body. “Phanuel convinced me not to,” he admitted in a soft voice. “Convinced me to live and do good...for you…”

The tears in Aziraphale’s eyes began to spill over then, and Crowley couldn’t decide whether or not he should have said it. He didn’t know how much more of Aziraphale’s pain he could withstand. 

Phanuel was one of the more reasonable angels that Crowley had ever met, but was certainly still an angel in every sense of the word and, as such, tended to be more than a little callous in certain situations with which they were not entirely familiar. So, really, it was unsurprising when the accusation left their lips: “And you, Aziraphale, repaid his good work by resorting to murder and mayhem.”

He moved so quickly that Crowley didn’t see what was happening until Aziraphale’s fist was curled tight in Phanuel’s robes, holding them taught against their throat and using the leverage to pull them halfway through the shop’s doorway. The demonic energy of Aziraphale’s wards grasped greedy tendrils toward the Archangel, licking and kissing hot, seering lines across their body, like red-hot brands. They barely made a sound, powerful and dignified as they were, but Crowley would attest to hearing a whimper, followed by a desperate, high-pitched keen in the back of their throat as they fought for release from the demon’s grip. 

Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide and bright, glowing like hot coals in a fire. A snarl twisted his lips, revealing a hint of fangs beneath. His body was as still as stone, but the hand that held Phanuel shook with cold, vibrating fury. 

“I  _ watched him die _ ,” the demon growled, voice shaky with rage. “I watched him die  _ over and over and over _ , until it was all I could see, asleep or awake, eyes open or closed. I watched  _ angels  _ torment and  _ murder _ him, rip the wings from his back, drag the broken pieces of his halo across his flesh, burn his body bit by bit by bit… Again, and again, day in and day out.” The fist tightened even further, drew the Archangel even further into the doorway, and the demon’s eyes grew wider, burned brighter. “So don’t you fucking  _ dare _ judge me. Don’t you  _ fucking dare _ .”

Crowley watched the display with wide eyes, his chest tight with...what? Surprise? Fear? A sick sense of pride? He couldn’t seem to decide, and that indecision had his body frozen, his brain scrambling, trying to make sense of the situation and what he should do about it. He should stop this, shouldn’t he?  _ Shouldn’t  _ he?

Phanuel finally let out a shout of pain as their cheek was pressed against the barrier between the bookshop and the world outside. The sound, combined with the rancid smell of burning flesh, had Crowley finally springing into action. Both his hands found the arm that held the Archangel aloft, squeezing it insistently. HIs eyes found Aziraphale’s and silently begged. 

_ Don’t. Don’t, please.  _

There was a moment during which the demon simply stared back, leveling that look of indignant rage at Crowley instead of the object of his anger, and in that moment Crowley felt genuine terror fill his lungs and stomach. 

Then the glow faded, the fury subsided, and suddenly Aziraphale was shoving Phanuel backward so that they fell away from the shop and stumbled back out onto the walk. The arm that Crowley had gripped fell to the demon’s side, and all of the air seemed to go out of Aziraphale’s body. He took a step back, away from Crowley, the anger that had just been in his eyes replaced with dismay. He looked, the angel thought, as though he was expecting Crowley to hit him, scream at him, or toss him out on his arse. In less than a minute he’d gone from docile, to vile and vicious, and back around to a puppy terrified of being stepped upon. 

_ Oh God... _ Crowley thought as he swallowed against the enormous lump in his throat.  _ You’re like a bomb waiting to explode.  _

“I’m sorry.” The declaration was tiny, soft, so quiet that Crowley wasn’t even entirely certain that he’d actually heard it. But he could see it in Aziraphale’s eyes, a desperate plea for forgiveness. 

_ Fuck... _ as undeniably painful as it was going to be, they really did have to sit down and have a long talk about a great many things. 

With his attention so firmly focused on the demon and the internal struggles of his own heart, Crowley almost forgot about Phanuel all together until the other Archangel made a low, throat-clearing kind of sound. Crowley turned back to the doorway to find them standing there, looking worse for wear with angry red welts on their face and throat, but standing otherwise tall, proud, and calm. 

“I have to tell you,” said the Archangel in a toneless, businesslike voice, “that my being here is your one and only chance to change your mind regarding this situation. If you bring down the wards now and assist me in escorting Aziraphale to Heaven to stand trial, your indiscretion will be forgotten, no harm, no foul.” They paused and allowed their gaze to flick back and forth between the demon and the angel before them. “I personally am not fool enough to believe that you would actually accept this ultimatum, but agreeing to deliver it was the only way I could convince the other Archangels to allow me to come see you.” Their face - somehow still lovely despite the demonic burns - shifted into something a little softer, reflecting the careful camaraderie that had existed between them and Crowley these past thirty years. “And I wanted to… That is, in case it all goes downhill from here…”

In the time they had known one another, Crowley had only seen Phanuel get properly emotional a handful of times. This was one of those times, and it made him wonder what the Archangel knew about what would come next. Did Heaven already have its next move ready? Was Hell planning to get in on the fun in retaliation for Aziraphale’s rather messy escape from their confines? He longed to drill Phanuel for information, to try to find something he could use to help them escape this situation. 

Instead, he settled his friend -  _ friend? Yes...friend… _ \- with a steady look and a frown. “Tell them,” he said, eyes flicking toward the sky. “Tell them that they can’t have him. Not anymore. And neither can the other lot Downstairs.” Crowley stepped closer to the doorway until he could feel the warm ripple of both angelic and demonic wards heating against his skin. He peered at Phanuel with a steady gaze, careful not to falter for even a moment. “We’re both done. Done with Heaven and Hell. Done with all of it.” His lip twitched, just a tiny motion that was hardly even noticeable by the naked eye, as he recalled the words he had said some three decades prior. “Aziraphale and I...we’re on our own side now. Come what may.” 

Phanuel certainly didn’t show any signs of surprise, but there was no denying the flash of sadness in their eyes as they nodded, slowly, once. “Very well, Archangel Crowley,” they offered after a deep breath in and out. “You have made your choice, and I will present it Above.” They took one more moment to look over both Crowley and Aziraphale with a strange, keen interest, and nodded once more. “Good luck, my friend,” they said quietly.

And then they were gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	11. Never Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon looks back upon his recent actions with clearer eyes and an aching heart.  
An angel reassures in the only way he knows how.  
The clock ticks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I just say...writing Aziraphale's thoughts in this particular fic has been a heck of a journey. As someone who has suffered from mental health issues, it hurts my heart a little bit every time I write him having destructive thoughts or breaking down. But that's good, I think...it lends a bit of gravitas to his character. At least, that's the way I feel, but feel free to let me know what you think. :3
> 
> Enjoy, my loves!
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

Aziraphale sat on the sofa in the back room of the book shop, not entirely certain as to when or how he’d gotten there, staring into a beautifully-burning fire in the hearth. He considered the dancing, flickering flames, wondering wherever had humans gotten the idea that Hell was a vast landscape of burning pyres and combustion. The truth was practically the opposite. There were personalized torments, of course, some of which involved flame, but the overwhelming majority of the place seemed to be cold and wet, the walls dripping and the chill of the floors working its way all through one’s body. 

Crowley was watching him. Aziraphale knew this, but couldn’t quite work out how to address it. There was much to discuss, words that needed sharing from both sides, but the demon was uncertain whether this was the time. Or, truly, whether there would ever be a proper time. 

He couldn’t help thinking about the visitor, about the things the Archangel had said to Crowley. 

_ ...your one and only chance to change your mind… _

His one and only chance...and Crowley had chosen  _ him _ . After all this time, after all that had happened and everything he had said and done, Crowley had chosen Aziraphale over being able to return to Heaven as though nothing had happened. 

It should have made him feel warm and loved and precious, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel instead that Crowley had made the wrong decision. He should have gone. He should have handed Aziraphale over to the Archangels, allowed them to do what they wished with him. He should have turned away and forgotten that Aziraphale had ever come back into his life. He should have chosen Heaven because...because…

What was there left of Aziraphale worth being loyal to?

“What did they show you?”

His gaze had been lost within the flame, so the soft question caused Aziraphale to draw in a sharp, startled breath. His fingers dug into his knees - a vague attempt to ground himself - as he lifted his head and turned toward the voice. Crowley was sitting in the armchair, the one where Aziraphale had always sat Before. It struck him as funny - though entirely without humor - that he should be on the sofa while Crowley sat in the chair. Had he sat here because of some instinct?  _ This is where the demon sits; it is irrelevant which of us the demon happens to be… _

Crowley seemed to sense that Aziraphale’s mind was distracted. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before repeating his question, a trifle louder than before. “What did Hell show you, Aziraphale?”

_ The one thing that they knew would destroy me most thoroughly… _

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, watched them flex, fingertips digging past the thick material of his trousers to press into the flesh beneath. He pictured those same fingers digging into slick stone, fingernails cracked and bloody, as he sought some sensation to focus on. 

He didn’t recall actively choosing to speak. It seemed, he thought, as though there was another Aziraphale somewhere in the addled mess of his mind, making decisions for him, and at this moment it had chosen for him to answer Crowley’s question. “It was their favorite form of torture,” came the small, quiet voice from his own throat. “Sometimes they would try for physical pain, using my body like a toy, trying to see how badly they could break me...but most often they showed me you.” 

Crowley was watching him. Aziraphale knew this, but try as he might he couldn’t find the strength to meet the other’s gaze. “We would be together, at first,” he whispered instead. “You would be there, with me...asking me what was wrong...begging me to tell you… You would tell me that you love me...” 

Satan below and God above, how his throat burned. 

“Then the angels would come for you. They would pull you away from me and I could do nothing but watch as you fought and screamed and begged for me to help you. I was forced to watch as you were burned in flames the color of blood…”

He wasn’t entirely certain that he’d managed to say the last bit aloud, but he knew he had when he heard the throaty sound of anguish from the direction of the armchair. 

“Then they showed me again,” the demon hissed, barely a breath as he glared down at his own hands. “And again, and again, and  _ again _ . Thirty years and an eternity of watching the only thing in the universe that mattered to me being destroyed over, and over, and  _ over… _ ”

There was a moment of silence. It could have been a few seconds or a few hours - Aziraphale wasn’t sure because he’d lost himself in the remembering and,  _ fuck _ ...how every moment in Hell had felt like the passing of the age of Creation… 

“How did you escape?”

Aziraphale’s gaze rose, met brilliant golden orbs that seemed to glimmer in the firelight. “Don’t you remember?” the demon countered. “You came to me and told me-” He stopped, frowned, eyebrows drawn together. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead to meet the ache that had risen there. “No, that’s not… Sorry, I-” He shook his head, hard, exacerbating the ache as he fought to separate the different aspects of himself in his own mind. “You weren’t really- No, that was all just my own…  _ Fuck! _ ” He had both hands wound through his hair now, pulling indiscriminately at fluffy white curls. 

_ It wasn’t him it wasn’t him it wasn’t him... _

_ Of course it wasn’t, you pathetic beast. Why would you have even thought that it was?  _

_ How could you have ever believed-? _

_ I needed him...I needed him to keep me alive… _

_ For all the good it did, you worthless, disgusting creature, you should have stayed in Hell. You deserve to be tormented for eternity for what you’ve done. _

_ I only thought- _

_ I only wanted- _

_ I only needed- _

_ Murderer. Cold-blooded, heartless, soulless, wretched, unforgivable,  _ monster _ … _

_ Go on...take him down with you…selfish, disgusting, irredeemable- _

He didn’t remember leaving the sofa, but he came rushing back to vivid reality only when a desperate voice begged him, “Aziraphale, please, come out of there! Your arms!”

He felt the firm hands on his shoulders, fiercely struggling to pull him back, before he felt the heat of the flames crawling up his own arms. He pulled back in surprise, nearly knocking Crowley over as he did, and stared at the strips of blackened fabric fluttering around his dark red, rapidly blistering hands and forearms. He was sitting on his heels in front of the fireplace, having apparently attempted to to crawl into it. 

_ Not Hellfire...just the regular kind,  _ a voice in his head told him.  _ And besides, that won’t do the trick anymore,  _ angel.  _ Destroy your corporation if you wish, but you’re going to need something significantly more holy if you want to  _ really  _ take the easy way out… _

“I thought you were there with me,” Aziraphale whispered as the flames against his skin petered and died out. He stared at his charred flesh; when he blinked his eyes became red and dripping. “It was the only way I could survive, I think...to believe that you were there, whispering to me, goading me to fight back… Without that I’m not sure…” He let out a single cold, harsh laugh that disturbed even himself. “I think I might have ended up even more fucked up than I am now.” 

Aziraphale turned away from the mess he’d made of himself. He once again found golden eyes, staring at him now from where Crowley had let himself fall to the floor beside him, watching him with a painful combination of fear and pity. “But I let the you in my mind become twisted,” the demon continued, an awful tremor in his voice. “I let myself believe that I was doing what you would have wanted me to do, even though…” He swallowed, hard, and felt burning trails making their way down his cheeks. “Even though all that hatred and violence...it wasn’t you, it was  _ me _ … I’m a monster… I’m a fucking monster, my love… You should have left me to the angels. I deserve to be destroyed.”

The honey-colored eyes he had so adored for millennia were full of pain and sadness. Aziraphale, feeling oh so very heavy and tired, waited for his beloved’s response. He waited for the realization, the understanding, the agreement that the only proper answer was to let Aziraphale go into the depths of non-existence. It was the only choice that made sense. It was only right, only fair, only-

The expected reaction never came. Instead, moving slowly and gently and with a few bright tears streaming down his face, Crowley pulled Aziraphale into himself and wrapped his arms tight around the demon. It was warm, and felt so very safe, and it set Aziraphale to deep, wrenching sobs. 

“You listen to me,” Crowley said, his voice barely a wisp of air against Aziraphale’s ear. “I won’t lie to you. I am terrified inside by what you’ve done, by what you  _ could _ do, and by no means do I condone any of the death… But Aziraphale...my Aziraphale...I spent the last thirty years believing you gone forever, stolen away from me, that I would never feel you in my arms again… And Aziraphale...I will  _ not  _ go through that again. I will  _ not  _ lose you again. I will  _ never _ again exist in this or any other world without you. I don’t know what’s going to happen from here on out...but believe this: this time around, if you go, I go with you, whatever that entails.”

Though Crowley held him tight and refused to let him go, Aziraphale pulled back sharply, far enough to be able to look into his beloved’s eyes. “You  _ can’t _ ,” he wailed, the weight heavy and unrelenting in his chest. “Crowley, you  _ can’t! _ I won’t let you die for me!”

“And I won’t let you die for me,” the golden-eyed angel countered. “So if you want to keep me alive, Aziraphale, keeping yourself alive is the price.”

Aziraphale stared, mouth opening and closing, mind reeling, seeking an out, another option, a way to change his beloved’s mind. No matter how his thoughts strained, however, he knew there was no way he could guarantee Crowley’s life if he himself wasn’t there to protect it. “ _ Why _ ?” he cried, skin burning with equal parts anger and misery. 

Crowley’s gaze was sorrowful, but sincere. “Because I love you, you foolish thing. Nothing will ever change that.”

Words are strange and wonderful things, an opinion that Aziraphale had held since the very beginning of language. They could make a heart feel so many things depending on phrasing, tone, composition, timing, and any other number of delicate factors. At this moment, the words that Crowley had chosen to use affected the black depths of Aziraphale’s heart in ways that he knew he would never be able to describe with his own words. His heart felt simultaneously full and shattered, warmed yet shivering, suffused with both devastating love and paralyzing terror. 

He found himself pressing against his beloved with a kind of desperate need, a need to hold and feel and grasp and cling. He sobbed relentlessly into Crowley’s shoulder as the angel hummed and shushed and made sweet little soothing sounds steadily. Sometime much, much later, feeling so wrung out that he could hardly  _ think _ anymore, Aziraphale let his head lean heavily against his love’s chest and muttered, tiredly, “I never cried half as much as an angel…”

Crowley made a soft, shaking noise that was nearly a chuckle, but was just a tad too melancholy to be defined as such. His long fingers ran up and down Aziraphale’s back, carding into the hair at the nape of his neck, occasionally pressing small kisses to the top of the demon’s head. “You should try to get some sleep,” he suggested quietly. “I’ve never seen you so tired, and soon enough we won’t have time for things like rest.” 

Aziraphale wanted to refuse. He didn’t  _ need _ rest, had barely slept a handful of times in all his six thousand years upon the Earth. However, even as he was considering his argument he could feel the bone-deep fatigue pulling through his entire body, making him feel as though the very air around him could press him down to the ground and crush him. He wanted to refuse, but his body had already made decisions of its own this night, and he was afraid of what it might do if he failed to properly prepare it for the trials to come. 

“Will you come with me?” the demon asked, voice barely loud enough to hear. “You were always so fond of sleep, and I...I don’t want to be alone…”

Golden eyes met too-dark blue, and despite everything, despite  _ everything _ , Aziraphale could see that Crowley would indulge him, because it was an arrangement they’d had for millennia. 

“Let’s go then, love,” the angel cooed, nuzzling his nose into Aziraphale’s curls. “Let’s do our best to try to dream of better days.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	12. Tell Me Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of visitors arrive.  
They are desperate, in need of help.  
One of them is terribly hurt...  
...the other has a tale to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't lie, you guys; this chapter and the following one were hard to write. Not because of any emotional difficulty or because there was anything particularly difficult about the content, but because they're mainly about filling in a few holes in the story when the scenes I've been wanting to get to are tantilizingly close. I've got some big moments in my head, you guys, and I can't wait. Almost there! o.o
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

An angel and a demon lay in a warm bed in a loft above a bookshop, arms wrapped around one another, waiting for sleep to come for the second time in as many nights. 

Aziraphale had never been one for sleep, himself. In the six thousand years he had been stationed on Earth as a Principality he had slept only a handful of times. It wasn’t a habit he had ever gotten into for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that it simply felt like a waste of time that could be spent reading or eating or otherwise enjoying existence. In the past thirty years he had spent as a demon he’d not been  _ permitted _ to sleep, because that would have interrupted his torment, if only for a little while. 

Crowley, on the other hand, had rather enjoyed sleep as a demon. It was sloth, for one thing, and the easiest of the big seven to indulge in. For another thing, he enjoyed the dreaming, and the ability to let time slip by without him whenever the current situation was more than he felt fit to deal with. Once he had become an angel again, however, he had found himself sleeping very little, and very rarely, because he could no longer deal with the dreams which always -  _ always _ \- involved Aziraphale. 

They both knew that sleep would do them a modicum of good. If anything, it would help to restore some of the power they had both expended raising the wards all throughout the bookshop. Knowing this, however, did nothing to quiet the voices in both beings’ heads, keeping them awake and alert and tense. There was simply far too much to think about, and no knowing how much time they would have to do that thinking. 

Crowley thought about all Aziraphale had said downstairs by the fire, about the torture he had endured while held in Hell. It made the angel want to step into a pillar of hellfire and let himself burn, knowing that the most important being in the Universe had been alive this whole time, both body and mind being abused and tormented while Crowley himself roamed Earth unawares. It made every inch of his ethereal being burn with agony to know that he _could_ have done something, _should _have done something, should have _been_ _there_ somehow, in any way that was possible-

“You’re crying again…”

Crowley startled a little. He had thought that Aziraphale had drifted off when his breathing had evened out, but now the demon pulled back just far enough to look up into the angel’s eyes. His own eyes were dark and heavy, exhausted and yet almost uncomfortably alert. A hesitant hand lifted from where it had been resting against Crowley’s hip and came to brush carefully against the wetness on the angel’s cheek. 

“You’ve been crying when you think I’m not paying attention,” Aziraphale sighed as his thumb gathered the offending drops from Crowley’s skin. “You’re doing it again now. Please don’t cry, my love…”

_ My love… _

Crowley tried - he  _ did  _ \- because he didn’t want to add more stress to Aziraphale’s already overwrought state. But the tears kept coming, traitorous little drops chasing one another down the sharp edge of his jaw to wet the pillow beneath his head. “I should have been there,” he whispered, the sound ragged. “Somehow, I-I should have known, I should have come to find you, saved you from all that…”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed as he sighed and wriggled up a bit to press his forehead against Crowley’s. “You couldn’t have known,” he whispered back. “And you never would have made it as far down as I was without someone striking you down. Then where would we be?”

Crowley let his own eyes drift closed. He pulled Aziraphale a little closer and took a long, deep breath of his love’s scent before letting it out slowly. “I still would have tried,” he swore, and knew that it was the truth. He would have readily faced down all of Hell’s armies if there was any chance at all that he could have rescued Aziraphale from all that he’d been put through. “I still don’t understand how you escaped,” he mused aloud, fingers tracing patterns on Aziraphale’s back. “I’ve never heard of anyone escaping the lower circles before.” 

Aziraphale made a soft humming sound. “A lot of it is...fuzzy,” he admitted. He didn’t want to talk about the way he had let his mental state devolve during his time there, but it also felt a bit cathartic to let out wisps of memory, like letting out a breath you’d been holding for so long that it was making your lungs burn. “My recollection is a bit like a dream...a nightmare, I suppose. I never questioned any of it at the time, but it does seem...rather odd. It had never seemed possible to escape, until one day it suddenly did. I shouldn’t have been able to make it out of there on my own. Beelzebub themself made certain that there were no holes in my security.”

There was a beat - hardly a breath in the fractures of time - and then Crowley was up, blankets tossed aside without a thought. He stared down at the confused blond demon blinking at him and felt as though the words were being physically torn from his throat: “Did you say...did you say  _ Beelzebub  _ was involved in your imprisonment? Personally?”

Aziraphale seemed genuinely bewildered. “Should they not have been?” he countered, misunderstanding. “Is there something strange about that?”

Gears were turning in Crowley’s head, grinding inexorably toward something that threatened his increasingly-tenuous grip on sanity. He reached forward to grab Aziraphale’s shoulder, squeezed it tightly, and opened his mouth to speak- 

There came a furious pounding on the bookshop door, loud and sudden enough to cause both angel and demon to jump in alarm and immediately fall into defensive stances. When the banging continued uninterrupted for several moments only to be joined by someone shouting rather loudly, the two glanced at each other and quickly made their way downstairs. 

Crowley had barely cracked open the entranceway when a snarky, but desperate, voice growled across the barrier, “Let us in, hurry!”

The scene on the steps of the bookshop was an unexpected one to say the least. Phanuel, whom they had seen so recently, was hanging over the shoulders of a female demon with swirling silver eyes and snow-white hair that fell down past her slim waist. The archangel’s head had fallen forward, something red dripping from beneath the curtain of hair that covered their face. The demon appeared to be supporting all of Phanuel’s weight and had a hellfire dagger held tight in the hand that was under the archangel’s arm. “Come on!” the demon growled again, this time with a hint of something in her voice that was very much akin to a plea. “You have to let us in!”

Crowley stared, open-mouthed, at his friend, who appeared to have been the victim of an unrestrained attack. There was rather a lot of blood soaking through their clothes, and the arm that wasn’t thrown over the demon’s shoulder was hanging limp from the shoulder. “What happened?” Crowley demanded, but was interrupted by Aziraphale’s voice growling angrily at the other demon. 

“What the  _ fuck  _ makes you think we would be stupid enough to let you past our wards?” the blond snapped. “If this is your big plan to get us to drop our guard, it’s a rather pathetic attempt.”

Phanuel seemed to be attempting to lift their head. A soft voice said something, barely loud enough to hear. It sounded like the word ‘sanctuary’, but Crowley couldn’t be certain. 

“ _ Please! _ ” the white-haired demon begged, any sense of intimidation abandoned the moment Phanuel had tried to speak. Silver eyes flicked back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale, pleading. “Phan is  _ hurt _ ! They’re coming for us!  _ Please _ , there’s nowhere else we can go!” As though to punctuate her point, the demon said, “Look!” and snaked her hand out from under Phanuel’s arm in order to throw her dagger as far away as she could. “I’m unarmed! Totally defenseless and outnumbered! Now please, I am literally  _ begging _ you here!”

Aziraphale snarled, an almost animalistic sound, and seemed ready to slam the door in their faces, but Crowley slid a hand into the demon’s and squeezed to get his attention. They looked at one another for a long moment, and Aziraphale seemed as though he wanted to argue against whatever Crowley was thinking, but he set his jaw and gave the angel a nod that clearly meant, ‘I will follow your lead’. 

“We’ll make a pocket in our wards,” Crowley told the white-haired demon. “That will allow you both inside, but if you put a single  _ toe _ out of line and we’ll snap the pocket closed and you’ll be obliterated. Got it?”

To both Crowley and Aziraphale’s surprise the demon didn’t so much as flinch at this stipulation. She nodded enthusiastically, lifted Phanuel up into her arms in a bridal carry, and said simply, “Yes, yes, please hurry!”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and nodded. Outside the door the white-haired demon shifted from foot to foot rapidly, eyes darting in every direction, until the exact moment that a tiny opening appeared in the angelic and demonic wards around the shop, allowing her to rush through the veil with her ward and kick the door shut behind them. 

The moment the door was closed and the relative safety of the bookshop surrounded them, the white-haired demon let out a deep, shuddering sigh of relief and leaned back against the door, sliding down until she sat on the floor with Phanuel held protectively in her arms. Her silver eyes closed, squeezed shut as she took several deep, calming breaths before finally looking back up at Crowley and Aziraphale with what could have only been genuine gratitude. “Thank you,” she said, though the words sounded odd on her demonic tongue. 

Now that they were inside, Crowley was at a bit of a loss for how to proceed with this unexpected situation. He decided to focus on the most pressing concern first. With his jaw set, ready should any surprise attack come, he crouched down next to the two visitors and held out both hands. “Give Phanuel to me,” he said, voice gentle but insistent. “I’ll take them to the back room and get them cleaned up.”

For a few heartbeats it seemed that the demon might refuse, her long fingers clutched desperately around Phanuel’s collapsed body as if she thought the archangel might vanish the second she let her go. Silver eyes stared a hole through Crowley, then flicked up to regard Aziraphale. She must have seen something in the dark blue eyes that were glaring down at them, because she swallowed hard and carefully handed the archangel over into Crowley’s waiting arms. 

As soon as Crowley had stood back up with his friend cradled against his chest, Aziraphale dove down to snatch the demon up by the collar of her silky black shirt. He slammed her against the door, the tips of her toes scrabbling to touch the floor, and glared with a look that said in no uncertain terms not to fuck with him. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice pure venom. 

The other demon, though visibly unnerved by the display, didn’t hesitate before responding. “My name is Belial. ‘Mistress of Lies’, if you want the full title, though I’d prefer you ignored that bit.” A wry kind of smile flicked across her face. “More a job description than anything literal. Not something I’m particularly proud of, believe me. Not a career I would have chosen for myself, if I’d actually been  _ given  _ a choice.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, the gears once again turning, bits of information working hard to fit together in his head. He recalled the name from Hell and could have sworn that Belial was the sworn rival of-

“I, uh,” Belial had continued, looking a tad nervous since Aziraphale’s grip hadn’t loosened. “I also happen to be the reason you were able to escape from Hell, sooooo…” She quickly glanced down at Aziraphale’s fist and then back up into wide, confused blue eyes. 

Crowley’s head was beginning to throb, but he felt very strongly that this was a moment for cooler heads to prevail, so he carefully shifted Phanuel in his arms in order to place a soothing hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Let’s usher our...guests to the backroom,” he suggested, making sure to keep his gaze just a little bit threatening as he met Belial’s eye. “I think they’re going to have a  _ lot _ to tell us.”

* * *

Aziraphale was having an extremely difficult time focusing on one thing at a time. His instincts and distrust of the newcomers told him to keep his attention firmly upon Belial, who had yet to explain herself. His curiosity, however, was justifiably piqued by the fact that Crowley was currently in the process of attempting to heal Phanuel’s many wounds. 

He had never seen Crowley heal anyone before - it was not, understandably, something that demons were naturally talented in - so it was captivating to watch, to say the least. His long, graceful fingers moved through the air above the archangel’s prone body, weaving tendrils of ethereal energy like an artist, stitching his patient’s body back together with light and puffs of warm, comforting breath. It was beautiful, Aziraphale thought, unable to draw his gaze away. He had healed so many times in his eons as an angel stationed on Earth, but his own techniques had never seemed so  _ beautiful _ . He found himself imagining this elegant artistry put to other uses, such as giving birth to the many, many stars that he knew Crowley had been responsible for before his Fall. What he wouldn’t give to have been able to see that...to watch his beloved design the exquisite jewels that decorated the night sky...

Phanuel had passed out at some point during the healing, but after feeling their forehead and pulse Crowley seemed satisfied that they would be okay and finally turned his attention back to the white-haired demon curled up into a tight ball in front of the fireplace. Even Belial’s shadow seemed agitated as she rocked their body back and forth, too close to the flame to be comfortable for anyone other than a demon. 

“You claim you’re the reason Aziraphale escaped Hell,” Crowley said as he made his way to the armchair. Aziraphale watched him carefully, saw the fatigue in his step, and moved to stand beside him as the angel sat. “Care to explain?”

There was no response at first, the demon seeming to ignore the request. Aziraphale felt a growl gathering in his throat and very nearly lunged forward to beat an answer out of the ignorant whelp, when finally Belial spoke. 

“First, you have to understand...she didn’t know, in the beginning.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crowley frown. “What do you mean?” the angel asked.

Belial sighed and seemed to squeeze into an even more compact ball. “Phanuel...I don’t want you to think that they were, I dunno...double-crossing you or anything. That’s not… They’re not like that. They...they’re a good angel.”

Aziraphale’s eye was beginning to twitch already in response to the nonsense this one was spewing. “Explain yourself properly,” he demanded with a barely-bit-back hiss, “before I  _ beat _ the truth out of you.” He was more than ready to do just so, if necessary, but a warm hand linked in his and squeezed, soothing some of the frustration that was threatening to boil over. He looked sideways at Crowley, who was looking back at him with tired eyes, and gave him a suitably cowed nod of understanding.  _ Pull yourself together and stay calm. _

“When this all first began, Phanuel knew nothing about it. I just want you to keep that in mind,” Belial sighed, sounding nearly as tired as Crowley himself. “They only found out about Aziraphale nearly two years later, when I was finally able to tell them.”

Aziraphale’s gaze was still on Crowley, so he saw the moment a flash of surprise and rage appeared across his face. He flew back to his feet like someone had electrocuted the armchair, and might have leapt across the room at the demon if Aziraphale hadn’t still been holding his hand and pulled him back. Oh, how quickly the roles could turn when emotions rose. “What?” Crowley exclaimed, voice cracking a bit. “Are you- You mean- Phanuel  _ knew _ Aziraphale was alive?!”

Belial cringed at the reaction, though she had clearly been expecting something of the sort. She remained in her tight ball, seated on the floor, but watched Crowley with wide, wary eyes. “I know what you’re going to say, and believe me, they  _ wanted _ to tell you. But they couldn’t risk the other archangel’s finding out that they knew, or that they’d passed it on to you, otherwise you both would have been in enormous danger.”

The fire in Crowley’s eyes suggested that he didn’t give a damn about danger, but what he said aloud was, “And you’re the one who told them?  _ Why _ ?”

There was no doubt about it; Belial was fidgeting as she considered the question, and there was something like shame shining in those silver eyes. The realization came to Aziraphale all at once. It was surprising, certainly, but almost obvious in retrospect. He recalled the look on the demon’s face as she’d held Phanuel against her body and begged to be let into the bookshop.  _ Interesting… _

“They love one another,” Aziraphale announced simply, and knew he was right the moment the blood seemed to drain from Belial’s face. 

Crowley blinked, gaze flicking from Aziraphale to the white-haired demon, to the archangel lying unconscious on the sofa. “Oh,” he finally said, in a tone that suggested he thought himself an idiot for needing to be told. 

Belial seemed almost beside herself with...embarrassment? Disgust? Horror? Aziraphale couldn’t quite tell, but she was pale and shaking and looked a bit like she might vomit at any moment. “We’re supposed to be arch-enemies,” she barked with a humorous laugh. “Angelic Minister of Truth and Demonic Progenitor of Lies...we’re supposed to _hate_ one another. In the Great War we would have been forced to face each other head-on.” She let out another sound, something of a mix between a sob and a growl. “Another of Her cosmic jokes, it had to be...because before I Fell we were...and we never _stopped-_” Her voice broke before she let out a ragged scream and thrust a trembling fist into the floor hard enough to splinter the floorboards and split the skin across her knuckles. The momentary exertion seemed to help, however, as she instantly sagged, all fight gone out of her in that one violent action. “I almost _cried_ with relief when you two managed to stop Armageddon,” she barely whispered. “That’s why we tried to help when you…but it took so _long_, because I couldn’t risk anyone from the satanic court noticing what I was doing to the cage, and then things went so sideways once you were out of there, because I wasn’t able to follow and _explain_, and now we’re all here and _they_ _know_, and we’re all going to fucking die together, one way or the other, and-”

Aziraphale had watched in silence, gaze narrowed, mouth a thin line, as Belial rapidly worked herself into a kind of hysteria. Ironically, he thought, it reminded him a bit of the way Crowley would get all worked up and bent out of shape whenever something went sideways on them. Perhaps it was a demonic quirk of exceptional anxiety. Aziraphale himself had certainly had a few  _ moments _ recently. 

The point was that he watched and listened, and only understood little snippets of what was being blurted out in such a rush, but he was also beginning to put little bits and pieces of the overall story together. From the way Crowley was still gripping his hand - now squeezing tight enough to break the bones, had Aziraphale not been using a hint of his own strength to combat the crushing force - he suspected the angel was putting things together as well and getting more and more agitated with each realization. 

“Belial,” the red-headed angel eventually interrupted, his voice betraying a hint of angelic power that dared not be ignored. “I need you to start from the beginning and tell us  _ everything _ you know, starting with who did this to Phanuel and why.” 

Aziraphale frowned, jaw clenched. It wasn’t the information he’d have requested first and foremost. He couldn’t help but wonder whether his beloved had his priorities settled at the moment. When Belial sighed and answered the question, however, the blond demon understood what Crowley must have been stitching together in his own mind, wanting his suspicions confirmed. 

“It was Uriel and Sandalphon,” Belial spat the names like acid between her teeth. “They were sent by Gabriel to bring her in for conspiring with ‘the traitors’.”

At his former boss’s name Aziraphale felt a low, deep, rage-fuelled roar of hatred building in his throat. He was both surprised and vindicated to hear that same furious rumble bubbling up from the angel practically vibrating with anger beside him. 

“Tell me  _ everything _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	13. Angels and Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon tells a tale.  
A pair of lovers listen with heavy hearts.  
A most unexpected visitor arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, with this chapter I am officially done with exposition. This have been explained, more or less, and it's time to move forward. I've got scenes in my head that are screaming to get out, one of which I know is something several of my readers have suggested. Look forward to some action in the upcoming chapters! 
> 
> Enjoy! <3
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

Belial told the story from the beginning, sparing no detail that was available to her. 

The world had failed to end. Both Heaven and Hell, having been deprived of the Great War for which they had waited for millennia, were forced to return to their daily lives as they had passed in all the days before. There was no grand battle, no epic engagement, no Holy Crusade nor Demonic Campaign. All that they had been working toward was put to an end without a single blow having been traded. And they were  _ not _ happy about it.

There would have to be punishment, of course, and it took little time for a haphazard plan to be formed. Temporary cooperation between Above and Below for the sake of destroying those who had dared to plot against them. 

But their well-laid plans failed, rather spectacularly. Forgoing any logic that had ever been presented to them by the Universe in which they existed, somehow an angel had stepped into hellfire and a demon had bathed in holy water, and  _ both had survived _ . 

It was inconceivable.  _ Unacceptable _ . Both the angel and the demon had walked away without a scratch, offering smug suggestions that they be left alone, and now they were living together on Earth, unaffected in any way by the punishments that had been wrought upon them. 

There  _ had _ to be another way. 

The agents of Heaven and Hell plotted and planned, and watched the rebels carefully, searching for some vulnerability, a weak link in their respective armours. There had to be a way, something they could exploit, something that would…

Heaven worked it out first. Despite millennia spent interacting with humanity as little as was required, the Archangels were still perfectly capable of sensing Love in all its forms. So as they watched the angel and the demon one day and felt the waves of deep affection and dedication rolling off of both of them, they realized that they had finally found the flaw they sought. The one thing that could be used to truly  _ hurt _ both the demon and the angel...

Each other. 

The plan was built slowly and carefully, because this was no longer about  _ eliminating _ the threats to their respective authority. No, Heaven and Hell both wanted  _ more _ . They wanted the rebels to  _ suffer _ , and they wanted to be able to watch and enjoy that suffering for as long as possible. They wanted to bath in it, drink it, devour it. They wanted to stand back and smile their horrid smiles, knowing they had devised the perfect punishment for the angel and the demon to endure for eternity. 

It was a tricky bit of work. Precise and delicate. Slowly but surely, conscientious to ensure that neither the angel nor the demon realized what was happening, the very nature of their essences were warped and perverted. The Archangels drew the grace from the angel’s Heavenly form and let it filter gradually into the demon’s Hellish one. The demonic court did their part as well, meticulously funnelling demonic power from the demon’s essence into the angel’s ethereal design. Neither the demon nor the angel noticed a thing, for hadn’t they always been entwined, and weren’t they now a constant structure in one another’s lives?

Neither Heaven nor Hell had any way of knowing when it would happen, but most assuredly it  _ would _ , sooner or later. So they watched, and they waited, and they spun their web of vengeful arrogance, and then-

It was almost a shock when it actually happened, but the agents of Heaven and Hell moved quickly to complete their work. The demon, who was now an angel, was subdued and sedated to temporarily dull his senses. The angel, who was now a demon, was dragged down into the deepest pit, body warded and essence smothered so that he would not be visible on any angelic spectrum. 

When each awoke, the other would be invisible...gone from the world which they had shared. 

The demon-turned-angel would be forced to endure Heaven once more, knowing that his dear one would have wanted him to live, while knowing that he would never see that dear one again. The angel-turned-demon would be tortured in all the ways Hell saw befitting, knowing that his beloved no longer existed in this world, leaving him nothing worth fighting back for. They would both continue to exist in abject misery, torn away from the one thing that mattered most, permanently separated from the most important part of themselves.

It worked, for a time. Heaven and Hell thoroughly enjoyed the fruits of their labors and knew, because of the examples they had created, that no other angel nor demon would ever be so foolish as to go against the grain ever again. 

At least, that was what they  _ thought _ . 

For, you see, Love is a strange thing, delicate and fragile, and yet more powerful and resilient than the strongest materials in the Universe. Love is clever, desperate, stubborn. Love fights for its right to exist, especially when being furiously told why it shouldn’t. 

There was another angel and another demon. Lovers since time immemorial, destined to be the greatest of enemies, yet determined to shatter the cycle. They had seen what Love between sworn enemies could do, and believed that it could be the key to great change in the Universe. They watched, quietly, patiently, while Heaven and Hell exacted their plan, and this second angel and demon began their own plot. 

It had to be done with  _ extreme _ care, for no one in all of Heaven or Hell could discover what they were doing, lest both pairs of lovers be destroyed permanently. 

The angel’s job was to keep the demon-turned-angel alive, for certainly his broken heart would lead him to dark and dangerous places. The demon’s job was to pick at the wards on the cage in which the angel-turned-demon was kept, slowly chipping away at them bit by bit by bit. They thought it would work. They thought that it could be done carefully and quietly. They thought that they would sneak the angel-turned-demon out of Hell, bring him to the demon-turned-angel, and that they four would escape somewhere deep in the expanse of the Universe, somewhere where neither Heaven nor Hell would ever be able to find them. 

They didn’t account for the demon-turned-angel escaping prematurely, on his own, nor did they account for the vicious, violent campaign of death he would embark upon in retribution for his perceived loss. They could not approach him directly, for that would surely bring both Heaven and Hell upon them, demanding answers - if they even held their rage long enough to ask questions. So they waited and watched, and when the time seemed ripe the angel carefully took the opportunity to guide the two lost lovers back to one another…

Only that didn’t go as they’d hoped either...

* * *

Crowley listened to Belial’s tale with tightly wound rage coiling around and through his chest. All this time...the past three decades spent in agonizing emotional bereftness while Aziraphale was being mentally scarred, possibly beyond repair...all this time he had been working for those who had engineered the whole damn thing. His fingers dug deeper into the arms of Aziraphale’s armchair a little more with each new piece of information Belial offered. The only thing that kept him from melting the entire thing with the hot force of his anger was Aziraphale’s firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing just tight enough. It was almost funny, he thought, that the one who had experienced debatably much greater trauma was also the one remaining calm during this story of revelations. 

Though, he supposed, Aziraphale hadn’t been  _ working _ for  _ Hell _ these past thirty years. He hated them for many more reasons, but at least he hadn’t been idiotic enough to believe the steady stream of lies that had been fed to him. 

Fuck, he felt like the biggest fool in the Universe. 

“Someone must have begun to question why Phanuel was so keen to come to Crowley’s aid all the time,” Belial was saying, her voice barely a wisp of a thing as she watched the soft rise and fall of the sleeping Archangel’s chest. “I was lucky enough to overhear that some of Hell’s troops were being sent to bring me in, but Phanuel wasn’t…” There was rage in the demon’s silver eyes, but there was sadness there as well. “Three Archangels lay in waiting not half a mile from here. I barely got there in time before they-” A deep breath, a shuddering exhale. “We barely got away, and if you hadn’t let us in here…” 

Crowley watched the demon carefully as she bowed her head with something akin to respect. His fingers were twitching against the harassed upholstery and his teeth ground so hard he thought he might be driving them backward through his jaws. 

It was a strange thing to hear Aziraphale’s voice come from beside and above him, calm and calculated when he himself wanted to boil over like a particularly vicious volcano. 

“So why should we believe in you?” the former angel asked, blunt and without much in the way of emotion. “You’ve just explained that both Heaven and Hell have been doing a surprisingly convincing job of lying through their teeth to Crowley for the past thirty years, and we’re all perfectly aware of what was done to me in that time-”

Crowley cringed a little as he felt Aziraphale’s fingers tighten on his shoulder; the only indication of the demon’s true emotions as he spoke. 

“-but then why should we believe in anything that you or Phanuel tell us? You’ve even admitted yourself that you’re the ‘Mistress of Lies’. How do we know this isn’t just a fabulous tale you’ve woven to convince us that you’re on our side?”

Belial didn’t look particularly surprised by the question, but she still heaved a great sigh and pressed all ten fingers roughly through her hair before letting her arms flump lifelessly into her lap. “You don’t, I s’pose,” she admitted. “I’ve got no way to prove anything, one way or the other. I’m flying by the seat of my pants at this point. All I know is that I want to protect Phanuel, and right now you two are the only ones on either side who might be willing to take a chance before just blasting us both into oblivion.”

Aziraphale made a sound in the back of his throat. It wasn’t quite ascent, nor was it quite disagreement. More than anything it was a noise to let Belial know that he had, in fact, heard the words from her mouth but was not yet ready to comment on them. 

Crowley wanted to comment, and was perfectly ready to do so, yet somehow the words refused to find their way to his lips. In his mind were flashing a veritable waterfall of images from the past three decades. He saw the faces of those who had been lying to him, over and over and over again. He found himself scrutinizing the memories of those faces, searching for any indication of their deceitfulness. He recalled vague twitches in Beelzebub’s jaw, strange flashes of brightness in Gabriel’s eyes. He pictured tight-lipped smiles and half-sneers, and couldn’t quite decide whether he was imagining them or that they had actually occurred that way. 

And he thought of every conversation he had ever had with Phanuel since that first day back in Heaven. He thought of the ever-present sense of sadness in their eyes, the way they had guided him and encouraged him to remain strong...for Aziraphale. Always for Aziraphale. 

“I believe you,” the angel found himself saying. Belial looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes, but said nothing. Crowley gave her a small nod and then turned to look up at Aziraphale, who was already looking back at him, a question in his dark blue eyes. He reached up and placed his hand over top of the demon’s on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m an idiot for trusting any of them,” he said, “but Phanuel has helped me so much while we’ve been apart. I can’t believe that they are capable of being part of such a disgusting plot, or that they would love someone who was.”

Aziraphale seemed to stare at him for a long time. His face was almost disconcertingly calm after all the growling and threats toward Belial from earlier. Crowley wondered what he was thinking, whether he would speak his mind either way. He longed to crawl inside his lover’s mind, to soothe whatever was happening inside there. 

Eventually he nodded, just once, before turning his attention back to the silver-eyed demon in front of the fireplace. “But I’ll be watching you for even the tiniest hint of betrayal,” he warned, and though his voice was low and cordial, there was a note of threat to it. “A single breath taken the wrong way and I will eviscerate you. Do you understand?”

Belial didn’t hesitate for even a moment before nodding. “I saw what you did on your way out of the pit,” she told him. “I promise you I’m not fool enough to fuck with someone who could do all  _ that _ .”

That, of course, sparked Crowley’s curiosity in the worst kind of way. He had heard bits and pieces of the story of course, when Heaven and Hell had met to discuss the Angel Slayer situation, but he had never really got any distinct details concerning the apparent carnage Aziraphale had wrought through Hell on his way out. He wondered whether it would be weird to ask about it, or whether it would cause Aziraphale any kind of anguish. Crowley himself was so infuriated with both sides right now that there was a part of him, however small, that longed to hear the tale. He couldn’t help but imagine some of the bigger bastards he had known Downstairs, writhing in agony, sputtering in pools of their own fluids and organs…

“Darling?” 

Crowley startled. He hadn’t realized that he’d gone off in his own horrid little world there for a few moments. Belial had made her way to Phanuel’s side, stroking the back of one pale hand and whispering soft words of encouragement to their sleeping form. Aziraphale was crouching in front of Crowley, looking up into his eyes with a soft concern. At some point the demon had taken one of the angel’s hands in his own and was pressing firm strokes against a pressure point at the base of the thumb. It felt nice...strangely settling. 

“S-sorry, I-” Crowley began, then stopped. He sighed. He felt quite strongly that he needn’t say anything at all. He could tell by the look in Aziraphale’s eyes that he already had a pretty good idea of what he had been thinking about. 

“Don’t let it devour you like it did me,” Aziraphale breathed as his broad fingers worked on Crowley’s hand. “Please. I don’t want to see you become a monster like me.”

Crowley gritted his teeth, struggled not to growl. “You’re not a monster,” he grumbled, knowing full well that his declaration meant nothing in the context of Aziraphale’s own mind. “They broke you...it’s what they do...but we’re going to put the pieces back together, I promise. You and me.” He shuffled their hands until he had one of Aziraphale’s in each of his own, their fingers interlocked and held tight. “Supposing I have to hold you together with my bare hands, that’s what I’ll do. Okay?”

There was a wetness in Aziraphale’s eyes, but this time no tears spilled over. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out with an affirmative-sounding sigh. “What are we going to do?” he asked, with just a hint of desperation in the words. “Even with the power of one more demon and one more angel, we can’t keep the wards going on the shop forever. The moment Heaven and Hell decide to mount a combined attack it will all come tumbling down.” He leaned forward to press his forehead to Crowley’s. Despite the seriousness of the conversation Crowley wished that they could just stay here like this forever. “I’m certain they’re watching us now. All four of us. So we can’t possibly escape without being followed. We need a plan, my love, and we need it soon.”

Crowley knew this well enough. The knowledge gnawed away at his innards, itched at the edges of his essence. But he was frustratingly devoid of anything even approaching an idea. There was no way to run, no chance of maintaining their stronghold, simply no hope of winning this fight. Heaven and Hell would come for them, and though the wards they’d erected may last a while longer they wouldn’t-

The little bell above the bookshop door jingled. 

Crowley’s heart lodged firmly in his throat, his eyes thrown wide in surprise. Aziraphale’s hands squeezed a bit too hard, his own eyes blinking in shock. Belial leapt to her feet, immediately taking a defensive stance in front of her unconscious lover, a low growl in her throat. Crowley and Aziraphale rose as well, but seemed frozen on their feet, unable to comprehend that someone had entered the shop. There was no demonic essence nor holy grace present that hadn’t already been accounted for, and humans couldn’t see the shop, so-

A ripple of power distorted the space in the room as footfalls made their way steadily through the shop. Crowley felt almost choked by it, the breath stolen from his lungs. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and felt a shudder go through the demon’s body. So he felt it too. It felt huge and terrifying, yet somehow simultaneously warm and protective. It felt...familiar…

The man who walked through the doorway into the back room was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair that fell in messy waves around his ears, and dark, soulful eyes. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his black coat, a kind of effortless confidence surrounding him. He looked tired, and perhaps a little sad, but a soft smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. 

“Hello you two,” said a kind voice, deeper than it had been when they’d heard it last. 

It had been three decades, a span of time that did much to change a human form in any number of ways, but with a heavy pressure in his chest Crowley realized that he knew this human, who wasn’t  _ entirely  _ human.

“Fuck me...Adam Young?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	14. A Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A message is relayed.  
A decision is made.  
An angel and a demon go back to where it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, my loves, so close! Only a few more chapters to go! I wonder if you'll be satisfied with the way I decided to wrap this one up...I certainly hope so! But there's a bit more to happen before then...
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

It was a bit like seeing a ghost, though Aziraphale had no logical reason to fear spirits and just as little reason to have believed that the human that stood before them would have passed on just yet. It was more that, despite having watched the whole of the human race be born and grow and die in cycles, he had somehow felt that this particular one would remain eleven years old forever. 

Faintly, he heard Crowley’s voice: “Fuck me...Adam Young?” It was the only proof that what Aziraphale was seeing was real. It still felt surreal. Unlikely. 

He heard his own voice croaking out the question, “What are you doing here?” and wondered a bit at the tone. Was that... _ shame _ he heard laced through his own words? 

The man who had grown from the boy they once knew regarded Aziraphale. It felt as though it lasted forever, an uncomfortable staring contest that left the demon feeling as though something terribly unpleasant was writhing underneath his skin. In reality, mere moments had passed, but those moments cowed Aziraphale somehow, made him feel small and worthless. 

Adam’s gaze shifted to Crowley before he spoke. Aziraphale found he felt gratefully relieved. 

“I was asked to come speak with you,” the former-Antichrist explained, a soft smile on his face. “To bring you a message.”

There was no mistaking the surprise on Crowley’s face. It mirrored the disbelief Aziraphale was certain painted his own. Who in all of Heaven or Hell would stoop to asking Adam Young, of all people, to bring them a message? And after all they’d put him through, why would Adam ever agree to do it?

“She says ‘hi’,” the human offered with a barely-restrained grin, “and that She wishes She could have spoken to you directly.” 

Aziraphale felt his eyes go wide. He stumbled back, one step, then two, and lost Crowley’s hand because the angel was standing as rigid as a board, unmoving. There was no mistaking the way Adam had said the word, no question of the force of it and what it represented.  _ She _ . Mother...God… Yes. He recognized it now; the wisps of protective energy circling around Adam’s already-powerful aura. She had touched him with Her light and sent him to them…

Aziraphale fell hard to the floor on his knees. For the first time since Adam had entered the room, Crowley moved, turned, and came to Aziraphale without hesitation. Gentle hands fluttered around him, stroked his cheek. The demon knew that he didn’t deserve this care, but he soaked it up regardless, leaning into Crowley’s touch for strength. “I’m okay,” he whispered, barely noticing how hoarse his voice was. “I’m okay, dear. Just a shock, is all.”

Crowley didn’t seem convinced, but he relaxed a little all the same, and after a few more minutes of fussing he turned his attention back to Adam. He didn’t, however, leave the demon’s side, for which Aziraphale was extremely grateful. 

“Why would She come to you?” Crowley asked, not doubtful, but needing to understand. “Why not come to us directly?”

One of Adam’s hands snaked out from a jacket pocket to brush through his messy waves. He was so much older, Aziraphale thought, and yet somehow looked just as young as he’d been the last time they had met. “She said that the other angels would know if She spoke to one of you, and that She wanted Her words to be for your ears only. She said that She needed to pass Her message to someone not of either side to ensure it would reach you as intended.”

A nervous throat-clearing came from the sofa. Belial had relaxed her stance and now had a hand raised like a child in class. “Should, uh...should I go somewhere then, if-?”

Adam smiled and shoved his hand back in its pocket. “No, you can stay, Belial,” he said, surprising the demon with her name. “I was told you’d be here.”

Belial didn’t seem to know whether to be pleased or uncomfortable, so she simply nodded, sat on the edge of the sofa next to Phanuel, and remained silent. 

Crowley, meanwhile, had found Aziraphale’s hand again and was squeezing it particularly hard. The demon understood. With their Almighty Mother one could never truly know how the tables were going to turn. She could be loving or She could be furious, or some ineffable combination of the two that left you terrified, having no idea whether or not you had done the right thing. He himself had lived with that uncertainty for millennia after being asked about his flaming sword. 

But Crowley - his brave, determined Crowley - set his jaw and refused to so much as blink as he addressed Adam once more. “What was Her message?”

At that Adam’s face  _ did  _ seem to age a bit, the serious set of his eyes and lips adding years to his youthful countenance. He let his eyelids drift closed and drew in a deep breath through his nose. When he spoke it was with a tone of rote memorization, as if he feared leaving out a single detail. 

“It began in a Garden, and it shall end in a Garden. Go to the place where the spark was first struck. Trust in one another. Make your final stand.”

Adam opened his eyes. 

Now Aziraphale’s hand was crushing Crowley’s. The demon was shaking his head even as the angel was considering their Mother’s words with a frown. “We can’t,” Aziraphale insisted, staring back at Adam and disgusted with himself to find that he was pleading with the human. “Final stand? Against both Heaven and Hell? That would be suicide!”

Adam said nothing, though his gaze was something sad and sympathetic. 

The tips of infinitely gentle fingers touched Aziraphale’s face, tenderly guiding it to meet Crowley’s. “What if this is Her way of helping us?” he asked. There was no mistaking the desperate hope in his beautiful eyes. “What if this is Her telling us that it’s going to be okay, somehow?”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the frustrated groan that came from him in response. “What if it’s the opposite?” he posited through clenched teeth, trying very hard not to snap out with his growing anxiety. “What if it’s nothing more than a declaration that we haven’t got a chance so we may as well just go out there and accept our fate?”

Crowley bit his lip. His golden eyes were swirling, the fatigue in them so clear it made Aziraphale want to cry for him. The demon could see the conflict on his beloved’s face. He  _ wanted _ to believe that their Mother wouldn’t send them out like lambs to the slaughter, but he surely couldn’t forget the punishment She had wrought on him for simply asking questions. Aziraphale watched carefully as Crowley’s thoughts whirled and squealed and tormented him with indecision. It killed the demon to see. His beloved should never have had to go through all this, and only to come to such a blessedly frustrating choice. For there was little doubt that this was the big one, the ultimate decision. They would be driven from the bookshop one way or the other, regardless. The question was only  _ when _ , and how they would face their fate. 

Oh…

Aziraphale sighed and felt the full weight of the aches and tension and fatigue roiling all through his body. He released some of the pressure he had been inflicting upon Crowley’s hand and instead let his thumb brush tenderly across the angel’s knuckles. He opened his mouth and, hardly believing the words were coming from himself, he said, “Let’s do it.”

Crowley’s eyes were as wide as two brilliant, golden moons. “But what if-?” he began, but Aziraphale interrupted him with a sad, tired smile. 

“It’s the end either way,” the demon said in a tremulously soft voice. “We can’t stay in the shop forever; they’ll eventually break through. We can’t run, because they’re watching us. One way or the other, we’re leaving this bookshop and they’re going to be waiting on the other side. We may as well do it on Her terms and hope for the best.” 

Crowley swallowed hard. There were bright sparkling tears in the corners of his eyes, and he didn’t seem to give a damn. “Are you still able to hope, love?” he asked, not unkindly.

Aziraphale forced a small smile on his face, only because he knew that, in that moment, Crowley needed to see it. “My love, for you I have all the hope in the universe.”

* * *

They left Belial behind, after a short argument. The demon thought that they should stick together, that if there was some possibility of survival it would surely require all of their power. It was Adam who convinced her otherwise. She needed to protect Phanuel, he explained, and the best place to do that was right there, in the bookshop, for as long as Crowley and Aziraphale’s wards held out. She agreed, reluctantly, but offered her assistance none-the-less in getting Crowley and Aziraphale where they needed to go. 

They couldn’t simply stroll out of the shop. Surely there were angels - and perhaps demons as well - waiting for them to do precisely that. No, in order to ensure that they made it to their destination they would have to take the shortest path, the one that cut through the fabric of space and time. It was a massive effort, one that required strength that they were rapidly running short on, but with Belial and Adam’s help Crowley and Aziraphale closed their eyes in the bookshop that had been such an important part of their lives, and opened them again in a place humanity had all but forgotten. 

The sight of the Garden filled Crowley with an avalanche of emotions that he couldn’t quite define. The Wall on which a demon and an angel had stood, talking rather than fighting, had long since fallen, a mess of stones which no longer had a purpose. The Garden itself, as lush and beautiful as any flora that had ever existed in the Universe, had grown beyond the boundaries of the long-demolished Wall, snaking out across the desert in every direction, almost as if it had always been meant to break free from its constraints. 

Crowley and Aziraphale stood at the edge of it, gazing in, hand-in-hand, hearts in their throats. The angel, who was once a demon, turned to the demon, who was once an angel, and hazarded a small, shaky smile. “Shall we go for a walk, love?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were tired, his smile barely a twitch of a thing, but he squeezed Crowley’s hand all the same. “Let’s.”

It was so very strange being back in this place, a place that humanity was unable to rediscover, a place where so many seemingly innocuous yet extremely important moments had occurred. It was so bright and brilliant, so teeming with life and beauty, so much  _ bigger _ than it had once been, and yet… 

“It feels smaller, somehow,” Crowley sighed. 

Aziraphale frowned, then nodded. When he spoke it was to himself, but his words gave Crowley pause. “The whole world’s a garden, and this is only a tiny piece of it.”

They walked for a while, slow and quiet, doing their best to enjoy this bit of time together before- 

The sun had been just peeking up over the horizon when they arrived, and they watched, hands clasped, as it gradually rose, spreading its light and warmth across the quiet majesty all around them. Everything was so vibrant, alive, beautiful...it was difficult to understand why their Mother would have sent them here for their ‘final stand’, but there was no doubt in either of their minds as to the meaning of Her words. 

They found it easily, as it was one of the only pieces still standing amid the sea of green. They avoided it for a little while, but moved inexorably toward it, knowing that it would be their ultimate destination. Long before Crowley was ready he found himself standing in front of it, his free hand outreached to touch calloused fingers to smooth, unblemished stone. It was here -  _ right here _ \- where he had taken a chance, slithered up, up to the top of the Wall, to stand beside an angel with a twinkle in his eye and a spark already igniting in his heart.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon…” he muttered as his fingers caressed the stone.

“Yes, Aziraphale replied with a soft, sad smile. “Yes, it did rather.”

Crowley tried to smile back, found it far too difficult, and instead rested his forehead against the cool smoothness of their own personal piece of Eden. He sighed, felt the weight of the world pressing in and was too tired to press back. “I’m sorry Aziraphale,” he whispered. 

The demon regarded him carefully before hesitantly reaching out to stroke the backs of his fingers over the angel’s cheek. “Whatever for, my dearest?”

Crowley shrugged, more than a little overcome. “Anything. Everything. Take your pick,” he whimpered. 

Aziraphale sighed. His warm fingers found the back of Crowley’s neck, worked up into his lovely red waves, and pulled him close until their heads leaned together. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, dearest,” the demon insisted, tone soft. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry. For so very, very much.”

When Crowley’s lips twitched upward it was without humor. “Let’s compromise and say that we both fucked up a lot.”

Aziraphale’s smile, similarly, held no humor. “I think I can accept that compromise.”

They stood there for what felt like a very long time, simply leaning against one another for strength and a mutual desire to remain close. A gentle breeze kissed their skin and ruffled their hair, almost like a loving parent attempting to offer comfort. 

“I won’t leave you…” Crowley eventually whispered. His eyes had fluttered closed, but now he opened them so that Aziraphale could see the conviction behind his words. “Whatever happens, whatever fate we’re resigned to, I won’t leave you. I won’t let you be alone ever again.”

Aziraphale felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes and fought to swallow them back. His instinct was to argue, to put up a fight, to insist that, no matter what, Crowley should do whatever it took to  _ live _ . But he found that he couldn’t. He found himself remembering his beloved’s former words:  _ I will never again exist in this or any other world without you. _ He felt the same, of course, and knew in that moment that he wouldn’t go on if Crowley was taken from him a second time. 

It seemed that, one way or the other, they would either both live, or both die. Together. 

“May I kiss you?” Aziraphale whispered, a sudden, deep desire overtaking him. 

Crowley answered his question with golden eyes that contained nothing but a deep, fathomless outpouring of love that very nearly broke the demon’s heart. His long, graceful fingers found Aziraphale’s cheek, his thumb swiping at the tears that had finally dared to fall, and he leaned forward. 

It was a soft, chaste press of lips, warm, comforting, overflowing with undying adulation. It ended far too soon. 

“Disgusting. Positively disgusting.”

They had felt the approaching presences, of course, but both sighed sadly all the same as they broke their kiss and turned to make their final stand with their bit of the Wall at their backs. 

They were surrounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	15. As It Shall End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A showdown in a Garden.  
Truths are brought to light.  
Pent up rage bursts free from an unexpected source, for an unexpected reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who hated the way I ended the last chapter...you're probably not going to be overly pleased with the way I ended this one either. Sorry in advance. Eh heh... Just remember that I love you all, and that the pain and agony is almost over. Only two chapters to go after this!
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

There were forty of them all together. Twenty angels, twenty demons, each forming half of a wide circle that fenced in the lovers. 

A few bodies - unimportant ones, no doubt - were hidden by the small section of Wall that still stood at their backs, but Crowley could see most of their foes. He recognized Hastur, though his face was a mess of scars and deformations, and wasn’t sure whether to be proud of what Aziraphale had done to the bastard, or terrified by it. Dagon was another stand-out on the demon side, as well as a few others Crowley had once known, most of whom had loathed him. The angel side was stacked with archangels, chief among them being Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon, of course. 

Standing closest together, with looks on their faces that were so alike it might have disgusted them both to realize it, were Beelzebub and Gabriel. Crowley felt bile work up his throat just looking at the two especially deceptive pricks. So many lies. So much misery. 

“Zzzo,” said Beelzebub with the air of boredom that seemed to accompany everything they said. “You two have aczzzepted your ultimate fate then.” It wasn’t a question. 

Gabriel spoke before either Crowley or Aziraphale could respond, a sneer on his infuriatingly handsome face. “Even  _ they  _ aren’t stupid enough to think they could cower in that wretched little shop forever.”

Crowley felt a hot anger bubbling in his gut at even the  _ sound _ of Gabriel’s voice. With what he now knew it was quite difficult to stop himself lunging forward to tear the smug look from the archangel’s face with his bare hands. He struggled for the right words, the perfect biting response to render that pretentious fucker speechless. Nothing would come, all his words suffocating beneath the blanket of his own hatred. 

Aziraphale, however, spoke in a chillingly calm voice. “You tried to kill us once, and failed,” he reminded the Archangel and the Demon Prince. “You tore us apart for a time, but ultimately that punishment came to an end as well. What more do you think you can do?”

It was a bluff, of course. Their prior survival had only succeeded as the result of a clever ruse. Their current existence together was merely the culmination of the interference of others. There was certainly  _ plenty _ more Heaven and Hell could do - including  _ properly _ kill them this time - if they were to only put forth the effort. 

Aziraphale’s words did, however, seem to rankle Gabriel at the least. He had a bit of a twitch in his eye that gave Crowley the tiniest little thrill of vengeful pleasure. 

“I’m zzzure we’ll think of zzzomething,” Beelzebub spoke for them both. “Zzzeveral zzzomethings, perhapzzz. Zzzeeing you two zzzuffer is worth putting a little extra time and energy.”

It was the ‘suffer’ bit that finally loosened Crowley’s tongue. “Why do you all hate us so bloody much?” he found himself shouting, his voice the definition of exasperated frustration. “All we did was avert  _ war _ . Were you all really  _ that _ eager to go on murdering one another? Didn’t we do enough of that the first time around?”

If one weren’t paying close attention, they may have missed the way Crowley’s words sent a little ripple of discomfort through the attending ethereal and occult beings. A few sets of eyes glanced around at one another, as though looking for something, some specific reaction. 

“It wasn’t just that!” Gabriel shot back, uncharacteristically emotional. He seemed exceptionally wound up, spoiling for a fight as it were, quite unlike his usual stoic, businesslike demenor. “Meddling in the Great Plan was bad enough, but then you two had to go and...and…” Violet eyes were flashing with anger, but he seemed to be unable to force himself to finish his sentence. 

Amusingly enough, it was the Demon Prince who completed the Archangel’s thought for him. With a disgusted smirk Beelzebub spat out, “You  _ loved _ each other.”

Crowley went still, a breath caught in his lungs. His whole body felt cold, like ice was running through his veins. He was overly, terribly aware of the number of eyes that were on him, waiting to see how he would respond. 

All this...everything he and his beloved and been put through...it was all because-?

There was movement in Crowley’s peripheral vision, and then Aziraphale was there, standing just far enough forward to be subtly blocking Crowley from the angelic and demonic ringleaders. His stance and voice were calm, but there was a power radiating from him; hatred and ire and fury. Crowley knew it wasn’t just him who felt it. A few less brave beings on either side of the circle backed up a step or two. 

“We were all the same once,” the blond-haired demon said, somehow both softly and yet loudly enough for all to hear him. “In all the ways that matter we are the same still. Yet you balk at the idea of emotion being shared between us.” His cold, angry blue gaze passed over each of the angels and demons in turn, settling them each with a look so intense that it made several of them visibly flinch. “The hard truth is that if you dared to look, I’m quite sure you would find that Crowley and I are  _ hardly _ the exception to the rule.  _ Millions  _ of angels and  _ millions  _ of demons, all once a single enormous family, and you honestly think there aren’t others who care for one another? I believe that there are far more like us than you could possibly imagine, and I think  _ that _ is what truly angers you.” His gaze had found its way back to Gabriel and Beelzebub, whom he narrowed his eyes at. “You hate seeing others explore what you yourself believe you cannot have.”

Crowley saw the instant the words struck and knew that Aziraphale was more correct than even he may have realized. Beelzebub flinched and took an involuntary step back, fingers flexing with an anxiety rarely ever seen in the Demon Prince. Gabriel somehow managed to stiffen even more than usual, a flash of pure vitriol passing through those enraged eyes. 

“You know nothing,” the archangel growled, but Crowley could see that his fists were clenched and shaking violently. Anyone with the basest of senses could see that Aziraphale had struck a nerve, and that nerve was now shrieking in agony. 

“On the contrary,” the blond demon retorted. Even from behind him Crowley could hear the hint of a smirk in his voice. “Despite what you would like everyone to believe, I think it is  _ you _ who knows nothing, Gabriel.”

The expectancy was that the Archangel would bristle, break, and fly into even more of a fury than he already had. The reality was a sudden, bone-chilling shift as Gabriel straightened up, breathed deep, and lifted his head to stare down his nose the way he had been doing to Aziraphale for millennia. “Fine,” he said, simply, barely loud enough to be heard. 

It happened so fast that Crowley found himself staring, blinking, confused, uncertain that he had actually seen what he thought he had seen. There was a tiny movement, barely a flick of the wrist, and a small blade had appeared in Gabriel’s hand. It shone in the light of the Garden’s sun and glinted with the unmistakable aura of divinity. 

Crowley thought that he cried out, but he couldn’t be certain because all of the sound seemed to have gone out of the world. He  _ knew  _ that he lunged forward, but he was half a second too slow when up against the violet-eyed archangel’s preternatural speed. He saw the moment the holy blade began to fly through the air. 

He didn’t hear the weapon strike home, but he saw the slight jerk of Aziraphale’s body, the way his fingers spasmed outward, bracing himself a moment too late. 

Then suddenly Crowley was in front of him, uncertain of when he’d moved. Aziraphale’s blue eyes - too dark, but still his, _still_ _his…_ \- were staring down in surprise at the blade’s hilt sticking out of the center of his chest. A glowing red bloom flowered out from the blade, slowly spreading, soaking the demon’s clothes. Crowley’s trembling fingers found pale cheeks that were growing paler and held firm, forcing Aziraphale’s head up to stop him looking at the damage. 

“Look at me, look at me,” he was saying, though he felt as though he wasn’t in control of his own voice. “Aziraphale, look at me, you’re going to be okay, alright? It’s going to be okay!” He wasn’t sure which of them he was attempting to reassure, but somewhere in the depths of his chest he felt certain that he was lying to them both. 

Aziraphale’s eyes finally found Crowley’s. They were wet, and shocked, yet somehow also resigned. He opened and closed his mouth several times before sound came out, dry and hoarse. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. One of his hands crept up alongside Crowley’s face, shakily rubbing at the tears there. “I’m so sorry that...that I’ve caused you so much pain, my love.”

Crowley shook his head, even as a sob erupted from him, breaking its way from his chest. He couldn’t do this. He  _ couldn’t _ . He couldn’t go through this again. “No,” he wailed, clinging to Aziraphale, pulling them close, foreheads pressed against one another. “You’re going to be okay!” he insisted desperately. It was more a plea than a statement “Please, Aziraphale, you have to be okay!” 

Aziraphale sighed - a tired, wet sound - and for just a moment his eyes seemed to be the proper color again. “I love you,” he whispered. “I always will, no matter the distance between us.”

The demon’s hand dropped away from the angel’s face, and Crowley felt the whole world go out from beneath his feet. His arms were around Aziraphale before he could think. They went down together, Crowley’s knees striking the ground hard with their combined weight. Aziraphale eyes had fallen closed. He was heavy and limp and unmoving. 

Crowley  _ screamed _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	16. A Mother's Dismay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parent cannot control the actions of a child.  
But perhaps the right confession may make a significant impact.  
Angels and Demons alike must listen and learn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is the penultimate chapter, my loves! There is only one more after this, and then "Revenge Omens" comes to an end. ;-;
> 
> I must admit, I was more than a little bit amused by the number of comments I got on the last chapter that basically boiled down to "I SCREAMED TOO WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO US". It have me those warm, slight-evil fuzzies to hear that you all were so affected. ^_^ With that said, I hope that you'll enjoy Chapter Sixteen, which may sooth some of your prior frustrations. <3 
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

Aziraphale was...warm. 

He wondered at this. He shouldn’t feel... _ warm _ , should he? He shouldn’t feel much of anything, certainly. Death - the kind of death that resulted in your very existence being wiped from reality - should not  _ feel _ at all, right? And yet…

It was like being wrapped in wide, adoring arms, cradled and soothed, held tightly, yet also gently. It was comfort and protection, and the shining light of the purity of  _ life _ . He felt boneless - bodiless, perhaps - and as though his very essence was being swaddled in pure, unconditional love. He attempted to open his eyes, but the world around him was blindingly bright, swirling, dizzying, so he let them fall closed again. Without consciously thinking about it he sank deeper into the unmistakably wonderful energy all around him. 

_ Where am I _ ? he thought, mind soft and hazy.

As though in response to his unspoken words, the warmth pulsed and pulled him closer into its insubstantial embrace. 

He realized then. Though he hadn’t felt it in some time, he realized that he recognized the warmth, the light, the  _ love _ . He felt himself begin to tremble and was unable to stop it so that soon the distraught shaking took over his entire being. Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes. 

_ Why?  _ he asked, his thoughts barely more than a pained sob.  _ Why would you accept me into your arms after all that I have done? _

The warmth flared again, and within that radiant glow was a wealth of wordless emotion. 

Love.

Anger.

Frustration.

Sorrow.

Understanding.

Reluctance.

_ Contrition _ .

Aziraphale felt overwhelmed with it all. So much formless information flowing through him, wanting to make him understand, desperate for him to  _ see _ . 

He did. He  _ did _ see. He saw, and he understood, and the tears began to fall hot on his incorporeal form.  _ Oh...  _ How painful, he considered with his aching heart, to give your children such a wonderful gift, only to have them continuously fail to even acknowledge it. How heartbreaking to watch those children scrape and scramble and still  _ fail to see _ ...

_They should know_, he thought, and attempted to pulse his own energy back like an answering embrace. _Perhaps if they knew, things could be different...at least for some of them._ _And wouldn’t even that little bit of a change be worth it? _

For a few moments - or were they eons? - there was a strange silence. Aziraphale got the impression of thought, of consideration. And then...

Agreement. 

Emphatic, grateful agreement.

Then a question, not spoken aloud in ways that mortal ears would require, but heard and understood all the same. Aziraphale’s tears continued to flow as he agreed, too grateful to put his thoughts to actual words. He stretched his metaphysical arms and held on for all it was worth. Desperate to have his feelings heard and understood, he finally dropped the guard he had erected millennia ago in order to protect the soft, sensitive delicacy of his soul. 

She heard.

She understood.

She wrapped him once more in Her warmth, Her light, and Her love, and then she set him free.

* * *

Aziraphale woke to chaos.

At first he couldn’t seem to pry open his heavy eyes, so instead he listened. All around him were shouts and cries of alarm, but these were nearly drowned out by the slithering movements and violent hissing of something massive. The ground writhed and undulated beneath Aziraphale, something smooth sliding easily beneath his fingertips. With effort, fearing that he knew what had been happening in his absence, he forced his eyes open. 

The demon was being nestled protectively into the shining coils of an enormous angelic serpent. 

He was large enough around to have swallowed an elephant whole, and long enough that, if he uncoiled and stretched to his full length he would be able to replace the lost Wall of the original confines of the Garden. The serpent’s body was a pure, pristine white, fresh as the first snowfall of the season. His scales shone and sparkled as though they contained the light of every star in the night sky. His huge head reared high above, jaw open wide to reveal long fangs that appeared as strong as diamond. And behind him, stretched out over the scene and creating massive shadows over the garden below, were six gigantic, glittering, golden wings. 

He was the most breathtakingly beautiful creature Aziraphale had ever seen, and for a few moments all the demon could do was sit and watch with wonder. 

On the ground around them the other angels and demons had scattered and were shouting in a mixture of alarm and anger. Michael was the furthest away, her hair in disarray as she jabbed ineffectually at a shattered mobile phone. One of the lesser demons had been trapped beneath a chunk of stone that had fallen from the Wall and was shrieking for help. A few of the angels were hacking at the Great Serpent’s scales with holy swords that were as useful as toothpicks against the creature. Several of the demons were attempting a similar attack with burning blades of hellfire and were aghast that they appeared to be doing little more than scorching the serpent’s flesh and enraging him further. 

Gabriel had been knocked on his arse in a patch of flowers. He was scrambling to push himself further away, while violet eyes flashed with genuine fear. As Aziraphale watched with something like a glimmer of understanding, Beelzebub rushed forward, wrapped an arm around one of Gabriel’s, and yanked at him, struggling to make him move faster. 

Aziraphale was surrounded by, and sinking into, the soft, scaly protection of the serpent’s body, but he could feel other things permeating the air around him as well. Sorrow. Agony. Misery. Desperation.  _ Rage _ . There was nothing of hope, of faith, of a willingness to live on. This was a creature born of suffering, set upon those responsible for the black hole that had been ripped open within his chest. 

The Great Serpent raised its face to the sky and  _ shrieked _ , a sound so rife with cold, furious suffering that it caused every other being who was still standing to fall to their knees with the violent power of it. Then enormous, molten gold eyes turned down, found their prey, and the serpent’s head dove forward, jaw wide with the intention to gnash an archangel and a Prince of Hell to unrecognizable pieces. 

Several voices screamed in horror.

Gabriel’s hand found Beelzebub’s and they both squeezed their eyes shut tight. 

Aziraphale placed both his hands flat against the serpent’s scales and let his warmth and love sink into them. When he spoke it was barely a whisper against the din around them, but he knew that the serpent would hear. “Crowley, my beloved...please stop.”

Enormous fangs halted mere inches from Gabriel’s face. A tremor like a mild earthquake rippled through the serpent’s body as his head lifted and turned, a look of shocked confusion in those gigantic eyes. Molten gold found bold blue. Aziraphale offered a sad smile. The Great Serpent shuddered again, and the sound that ripped from it was recognizable as a deep, tumultuous sob. 

“Shhh…” Aziraphale soothed as his fingers pressed against those shining scales. His heart felt heavy for the pain his beloved had endured, but also full for the chance to repair the damage that had been caused. “Shhh, love, it’s alright. I’m here. I’m here with you. Can you come back to me, my darling?”

The Great Serpent wriggled and writhed, a swirl of conflicting emotions. It wanted to comply, needed to hold and touch and prove to itself that Aziraphale was really here, really alive and okay. But it also wanted…

Golden eyes flicked toward the Archangel and the Demon Prince. They had been slowly scuttling away, hoping not to regain the Great Serpent’s attention, but now they stopped, still as statues. Beelzebub’s hand was still in Gabriel’s. The serpent stared down at them and let out a low, threatening hiss that was nearly a growl. They both flinched, but neither moved. 

Aziraphale pressed his cheek against the serpent’s coils, letting all of his adoration for the being seep through as he whispered calming words. “It’s okay, my love. Let them be, it’s okay. I’m here now, and they won’t hurt either of us anymore. Come back to me, my brave, beautiful Crowley…”

The serpent glared at his prey a few moments longer, and then his body began to ripple and recede. Six golden wings flapped and curled, each feather glistening like a thousand gems, mantling over himself and the one he had sworn to love and protect. For a breathtaking moment Aziraphale was encapsulated in hundreds of thousands of white and gold stars shining at him from every direction. He felt warm, safe, and loved, even more so than he had felt moments before while wrapped in an objectively larger power. This was where he was meant to be, he understood. How he’d come here had not been ideal, and many wrongs had been committed that he would regret until the end of time, but he had, in the end, wound up precisely where he was supposed to be…

...with Crowley. The only being -  _ Forgive me, Mother, but I know you understand…  _ \- who truly mattered to him. 

White scales and golden wings had once again become a grey suit and gorgeous red waves. They were both on their knees in the grass that had been flattened by the Great Serpent’s coils, Crowley’s arms extended, his delicate hands shaking violently as they fluttered around Aziraphale’s face. Damp eyes flicked down to the demon’s chest, which appeared whole and unstained by blood. The blade was nowhere to be seen. “You’re okay…” Crowley gasped, barely a whimper. His gaze lifted back to meet Aziraphale’s. Tears began to spill over. “I thought I’d lost you again...I couldn’t- I  _ couldn’t _ -!”

Without hesitation Aziraphale lunged forward and pulled his red-haired angel into a bone-crushing embrace. “Hush,” he sighed in Crowley’s ear. “It’s okay now, my darling, my sweet serpent. Everything is going to be okay.”

All around the two lovers, angels and demons stared, confused, their minds whirling, desperately seeking explanation. Not one of them, however, dared approach. Though they had an overwhelming numerical advantage, Crowley’s violent display and the ineffectual nature of their weapons had given them all pause. They glanced about at one another, questions in their eyes, looking to each other for direction. An angel and a demon worked together to carefully extract the demon who had been trapped. 

Gabriel, though his eyes betrayed his continuing fear of Crowley’s surprisingly impressive rage, was the first to speak. Or, more accurately, he was the first to  _ attempt _ to speak, as he had barely begun to trigger the required vocal vibrations when Aziraphale’s glare found him, causing the Archangel to quickly snap his jaw shut. 

“You’ll be wondering how it is possible that I survive,” Aziraphale spoke, even as he held Crowley tight and ran comforting fingers through his beloved’s hair. He was addressing the crowd, but he held Gabriel’s eye in particular, wanting to ensure that his former boss was the one to receive this particular speech. “The explanation is quite simple: the Almighty wished for me to relay Her message to you all. She sent me back, just as She did for Crowley when my own hellfire blade pierced his heart.” 

The reaction was immediate. A flutter of gasps and whispers and murmurs moved through the angels and demons. Gabriel’s jaw fell and his skin paled. Beelzebub stared, eyes wide, looking more attentive than anyone present could ever recall the Demon Prince being before in any situation. Crowley pulled back, just far enough to be able to fix teary eyes on his love’s face. 

“She did not wish for us to suffer any longer-” Aziraphale continued. His chest felt tight even as he spoke the words. He wasn’t certain - not truly - that he deserved Her forgiveness, but after all that had happened he refused to make light of it. “-nor was She willing to watch us die in light of what She sees as Her own failing.”

Several angels gasped outright at this. Surely it was sacrilege to imply that the Almighty could be  _ fallible _ ? Yet Aziraphale had returned from the dead, and was not immediately struck down for his words, despite many of the gathered glancing toward the sky and waiting for the inevitable lightning bolt. They were forced to consider, therefore, that what he was saying had actually, in fact, come from Her…

Gabriel opened his mouth again, paused, waited to be snapped at. When it didn’t happen he cleared his throat and risked a question. “What...what does that mean, exactly?” 

There was something immensely satisfying about seeing Gabriel cower so, as though he expected Aziraphale to sic the Great Serpent on him again should he dare say the wrong thing. The demon in Aziraphale grinned at this - a nasty grin of cruel pleasure - but he swallowed it back. For now, he needed to focus on this moment. This was, truly, a very important discussion that could change...everything. 

“It’s almost funny,” the blond demon sighed. He turned to Crowley and allowed his eyes to soften, and a small, tired smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve all spent so much time and effort focusing on what you believe you are  _ supposed _ to be. The angels must bless, the demons must tempt, we all must loathe one another and grip tight to the eternal struggle of good against evil…” As he spoke he brushed a thumb across Crowley’s cheek, capturing a few tears and sliding them away as the angel leaned into the caress, desperate for the comfort of his beloved’s touch. 

“But we two have been on each side of the coin,” Aziraphale continued, ensuring his voice reached all who watched and listened. “And we are able to tell you without doubt, that it is not a question of ‘good and evil’. It is a question of  _ choice _ .”

Gabriel floundered. For a moment he dared look away to glance at Beelzebub and meet their own bewildered face. When he looked back at the former Principality it was with something like pain in his eyes. “But we don’t  _ have  _ a choice,” he croaked, genuine misery in the statement. “She didn’t make us that way. Humans have free will, not angels and demons!”

Aziraphale could almost feel sorry for him. He certainly  _ did  _ feel sorry for the millions of other angels who followed his line of thought. He dragged his gaze away from Crowley’s loving one in order to set a sardonic glare on the violet-eyed Archangel. “And yet, we have  _ all  _ made extremely significant choices since we first took up these opposite sides, more and more often as the years went on. Crowley and I  _ chose _ to fight against Armageddon. You all  _ chose _ to cast judgement upon us without the Almighty’s input. Angels and demons have fallen in love and pledged themselves to one another. Members from both sides have worked together for what they believed in. We have all been making choices for millennia. And yet no angels nor demons have been smote from the fabric of reality for daring to rebel.” 

Those gathered had leaned in, eyes wide, ears perked, listening with rapt attention, barely daring to believe what they were hearing. Gabriel’s lips were parted, his chest moving rapidly while an exceptionally pale Beelzebub gripped his wrist hard enough to break it. 

“Don’t you understand?” Aziraphale asked, his tone a mixture of sorrow, anger, and exhaustion. “You’ve been trying so hard to punish us for what you see as something you can’t have, but you’ve had it all along.” He held Gabriel’s gaze and spoke slowly and clearly, hoping desperately that the weight of his words would sink through in the way their Mother wished them to. “She gave us free will a long time ago. It was up to us to exercise it.”

The silence was deafening. Aziraphale could almost feel the cumulative breath being held between everyone there as they considered those words. 

The wind blew through the Garden, gentle, caressing. Leaves fluttered and flowers danced. A nearby stream trickled slow and sure. The sun shone warm and encompassing. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. 

When again Aziraphale spoke his voice was soft and sad and so very, very tired. “She had hoped we would have worked it out sooner,” he sighed, speaking to himself as much as any of the others. “Especially after what we thought of as the ‘Great Plan’ did not occur. She regrets that we never did and hopes...She hopes that we’ll take this knowledge and do something with it.” He met Crowley’s shining golden eyes again. The angel was looking back at him with something like wonder, something like sorrow. Aziraphale did his best to offer a smile but wasn’t certain he succeeded. “We all have so much to offer to this world She created. Now She is leaving it up to us to decide how we want to make our mark.” 

With a deep, cleansing breath, Aziraphale slid his hands down Crowley’s arms and wove their fingers together. He drew them both carefully to their feet and spared a final glance toward Gabriel and Beelzebub. They seemed in shock, but there was also a slow realization spreading across their features that he suspected would lead to a rather significant conversation. “You’ll find that several infant angels have appeared at Heaven’s Gates,” the blond-haired demon, who was once an angel, told them. “I made an offering to atone for my crimes, and She accepted. That is my first mark, and the last time I intend to interact with Heaven.” His tone was resolute, and he could see that Gabriel understood, even if he was not yet sure whether he would accept. 

“Aziraphale?” The word was soft, concerned. Crowley’s brow was knit, his lip quivering. “An...offering?” 

Aziraphale did smile at him then, just a gentle, comforting thing as he squeezed his beloved’s hands. “Later, my love,” he begged off. Then, sparing a last glance around at the speechless angels and demons who had much to think about, he nodded once and leaned into the redheaded angel’s shoulder. 

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


	17. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes, as it always has...  
Some days are good...  
Others are not...  
But time presses ever onward, and love endures...  
Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my lovelies! It's a bit bittersweet because I had an absolute blast writing this one, even when it was being absolutely awful to my heart. I'll miss it, but in the end I feel pretty satisfied with what I did with it. <3
> 
> I want to give a huge thank you to Masao (https://www.instagram.com/masaomoshi/), who is the artist behind the original concept of of 'Revenge Omens', for giving me enthusiastic permission to write this fic version of her adorable-angsty comics! A huge thank you as well to all the beautiful people who followed me along this journey and left so many beautiful kudos and comments to keep me pushing forward!
> 
> Thank you everyone, for being awesome! I hope you enjoyed this occasionally VERY PAINFUL fic, and I hope you'll keep an eye out for my next long-fic project - 'The Scent of Desire' - which will begin this coming Monday! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

** _6 Months Later…_ **

Crowley awoke with a start, heart racing. For a moment his body was in fight-or-flight mode, seeking out the danger, rapidly assessing the situation. That moment soon passed, and instead he let out a deep, slow sigh, forcing the sensitive muscle beneath his chest to be calm. 

Aziraphale was having another nightmare.

Moving slowly and carefully, Crowley propped himself up on one elbow and reached forward to card his long fingers through soft white curls. Aziraphale’s nose twitched, his eyes scrunched tight. His hands were wrapped in the blankets in a death grip. Crowley could feel the waves of anxiety, fear, self-loathing… He leaned forward and pressed his lips to his beloved’s forehead before whispering, “Dream of whatever you like best.”

There was a sharp breath, and then the tension went out of Aziraphale’s body. Movement behind softened eyelids showed that he still dreamed, but now it would be a pleasant dream. One more nightmare banished to the ether. 

With his task done, Crowley turned and gently extracted himself from the soft grey sheets of their bed. Normally he would snuggle right back in, wrap his arms around Aziraphale and hold him close, but this morning he felt a rather desperate need for some good, hot, black coffee.

The stairs didn’t creek because Crowley warned them not to. The cottage was quiet and peaceful as the first streaks of morning light peeked through the windows. It looked likely to be a lovely day. Perhaps Crowley would spend a bit of time working on the garden later. It was growing particularly thick and lush these days. Aziraphale seemed so at peace when sitting in the special cushioned lawn chair Crowley had placed next to the koi pond. He would sit and read and he would look so very much as he had back before-

Crowley reached across the kitchen counter to flick on the coffee maker - an overly-complicated, super-fancy affair that made just about every hot beverage known to mankind. It was one of Crowley’s only real additions to the cottage, one of the only things he had cared to add to the decor after ensuring that he had a sizable greenhouse at the edge of the garden. The all-black appliance began to whir and sputter, grinding beans in one compartment while boiling water in another. Crowley leaned against the countertop and waited patiently. For some reason the sounds of the coffee maker always soothed him. 

While he waited, he noticed a crisp white envelope laying on the kitchen table. He recognized the looping scrawl across the front of it and allowed a little smile to twitch the corners of his mouth. Pulling a simple piece of cardstock from the envelope, Crowley read the short message twice.

_ The younglings are doing well. Growing rapidly, beginning to resemble their former selves. Still quite rambunctious. Belial is pulling her hair out, but would never admit that she’s loving the challenge. Hope you are getting along. Will visit soon.  _

_ -P _

Crowley couldn’t help but smile outright imagining Belial trying to wrangle a group of rambunctious child angels. He remembered the way any semblance of color had gone out of the demon’s face the day Phanuel had suggested taking the resurrected brood under their wings. He’d very nearly laughed out loud, and may have done so if he hadn’t been concerned by Aziraphale’s narrow-eyed look of deep thought. 

Those first few weeks after the Garden had been...emotional, to say the least. Phanuel had woken while they were gone, and was desperate to hear about what had happened when they returned. The second time around, with much less riding on the outcome of his tale, Aziraphale went into deeper detail, describing his moments in the Almighty’s embrace with a sigh on his lips and a strange look in his eyes. Crowley wondered what it had felt like, being held by their Mother after such a long time spent never hearing so much as a peep from Her, but he didn’t ask. He wasn’t entirely certain why. It just seemed somehow like a question that shouldn’t be asked. 

They did not, of course, know how the millions of angels and demons in Heaven and Hell would react to this new concept of free will that Aziraphale had presented them with, but Phanuel in particular had faith that good things would come of it. Even still, Aziraphale insisted that Phanuel and Belial stay in the bookshop for a while, where they could be safe - at least for a time - while they all waited to see what would happen. Belial put up a token refusal, but easily melted under the warm gaze of her angelic lover. Crowley talked a storage room into expanding itself enough to accommodate a bed, and that was that. 

Later that night Crowley once again asked Aziraphale about this ‘offering’ he had mentioned. The blond had bitten his lip and tried to brush it off as nothing of importance, but Crowley wouldn’t allow it. He gently badgered his beloved. Beseeched him. Implored. Appealed. Eventually begged. And when Aziraphale had finally heaved a deeply put-upon sigh and gave in, Crowley understood why he had been so reluctant to reveal the truth. 

The demon who had once been an angel and was now somewhere in between - refusing to label himself as either - had given up his wings. 

The truth crushed Crowley more than he could say. He found himself devolving into tears as he thought back upon that first meeting and a brilliant white wing sheltering him from the first ever rain. Aziraphale had held him, assured him that it was fine, that it had been a worthwhile trade to restore that which he had taken from this world in his rampage of vengeful fury. Crowley understood, knew that it had hardly even been a choice at all, but even so he had cried for a long time, getting out enough tears and sorrow for both of them. 

A week went by before anyone from either Heaven or Hell dared attempt to contact them. Belial, being the only one in residence who was yet at full strength, had answered the quiet knock on the front door of the shop and nearly spat at the feet of the visitor. She probably would have, had Crowley not sidled up beside her and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. 

Michael had looked rather uncomfortable, but seemed determined to deliver her message. She had thought, perhaps, that they might like to know that a great many discussions were occurring in Heaven. There was doubt and disbelief, as could be expected, but there was also much cautious optimism. Angels were being encouraged to partake in meditation and self-reflection to determine their own path forward. A small number had already left, several to Earth to explore what they had never before been permitted to, others to the stars to explore the extent of Her universe. Gabriel, specifically, had been shut up in his office since the day in the Garden. He was stubbornly ignoring any attempt at communication for the time being. 

Finally came the offer: several of the Archangels had gotten together and agreed to offer up a small portion of their own grace, believing that perhaps they could restore Aziraphale’s angelic essence without stealing it back from Crowley. 

Crowley very nearly answered for Aziraphale, but in the end he snapped his jaw shut, knowing that it was not his place to make such a decision. As it turned out, Aziraphale himself had been standing off in the shadows behind a bookshelf, listening to the conversation occurring in the doorway. He had come forward then, settled Michael with a look that caused a visible shiver to go through her, and politely declined the offer. In Aziraphale’s own words, he didn’t “want anyone fucking with who I am ever again”. Michael, for her part, didn’t seem to be all that surprised by this decision. She had simply nodded, bid them farewell, and went on her way. 

Crowley thought of asking Aziraphale why he had truly declined the offer. Part of him thought it highly unusual to give up the chance to become himself again. But then, he realized, it would rather defeat everything Aziraphale had said back in the Garden, wouldn’t it? After all, holy grace or demonic powers aside, hadn’t his whole point been that they were all who they  _ chose _ to be? 

Thinking on that, Crowley couldn’t help but be terribly proud of his beloved, albeit a little bit sad for him as well. 

Around the middle of the second week Beelzebub showed up at the door. Crowley had answered this time and, had it not been for Aziraphale’s presence he may have slugged the Demon Prince in the face and slammed the door. Somehow he managed to reign in his distaste long enough to hear the demon out. They had come to inform the bookshop refugees that Hell, in general, had been instructed to leave them alone. Of course, with this new ‘free will’ concept there was no telling who might decide to come after them out of personal vendetta - Hastur in particular had been missing since the Garden - but there would be no official orders against the two sets of lovers. They were to be disregarded barring any future conflicts. 

Aziraphale had been the one to ask whether there was anything else the Demon Prince had to say. Beelzebub, seeming surprised by the question, had looked down at their feet and muttered something barely audible about how Gabriel still wasn’t responding to any attempts of communication. In a fit of incredulous anger Crowley had wanted very much to suggest something exceptionally profane. Aziraphale, however, had looked at the Demon Prince with blank, dispassionate eyes, and simply said, “Give him time. He was never very good at dealing with change.”

Later that night, his mind a stormy sea of emotion, Crowley had asked Aziraphale how he could possibly be so forgiving after everything they had gone through, after everything he himself had been subjected to down in Hell. Aziraphale hadn’t answered until they were tucked into one another beneath a pile of warm, soft blankets. “Do not mistake a lack of action with a show of forgiveness,” he had said in a quiet voice. “There is still - and may always be - a rage deep within me clawing to get free, wanting nothing more than their blood in exchange for all that they took and tried to take. But I am choosing to move forward, to focus on  _ us _ and our future, my love. That is  _ my  _ choice. That is how I choose to use my free will.”

It was an astounding choice, Crowley thought, for one who had experienced so terribly much. He thought that, surely, if Aziraphale could go through what he had and still level his focus forward, then certainly Crowley could too. 

That night, after Aziraphale had drifted into a fitful sleep, Crowley had pressed a kiss to pale curls, wished for sweet dreams for his love, and pulled out his phone to begin researching real estate. 

Sometime during the third week the angel shared what he had found with his beloved. It was a nerve-wracking presentation. He hadn’t been sure how Aziraphale would react to the idea of leaving his precious bookshop. He’d been sure to quickly guarantee that every last one of the shop’s books would come with them, that he would personally create a pocket universe in one of the spare rooms if that was what was required. He would make absolutely certain that their new home was precisely what Aziraphale wanted, would do anything to make it perfect for him. 

Aziraphale had stared at the pictures Crowley showed him on his phone for what felt like an eternity. Then he had shoved the phone back into Crowley’s hands, turned and walked to the bedroom without saying a word. 

Crowley - discouraged but also not wanting to allow his love to stew in whatever emotion he was currently feeling for too long - had followed only a few minutes later. He found Aziraphale laying with his back to the door, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobbing. Of course, Crowley had immediately panicked, flying to his love’s side, shaking fingers reaching out to brush desperately at the tears, as though getting them all could somehow abolish the sadness. It wasn’t until he was finally forcing sound through his throat, intent to apologize and swear to never bring up such a foolish idea ever again, that he noticed a small small on Aziraphale’s quivering lips. 

“I don’t deserve you,” the blond had wept, even as the smile grew wider, his eyes lighter. “I don’t deserve you, and I never will, but I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying to be someone who does.”

Crowley, hardly daring to believe, had held his breath and whispered, “In...in our new home?”

And Aziraphale had nodded and grinned, looking happier than Crowley could remember seeing him since that fateful picnic in the park. “Yes, my love...in our new home.”

They had moved hardly a week later. Crowley had thought that Aziraphale might want to do a bit of ‘shopping around’, as it were, but his beloved had insisted that the secluded South Downs cottage Crowley had found was perfect. They had taken a special trip - their first outside the bookshop since the Garden - to see it in person and it had been love at first sight. In a mere few days they had managed to pack up all of Aziraphale’s books and other treasures, along with the few things Crowley cared enough about to take along, and had set about making the new acquisition their own. Before they left Aziraphale had handed Phanuel and Belial the keys to the shop. “Should you decide you’d like to stay,” he told them, and hurried off before either of them could stammer out a stunned thanks. 

That first night in their new home, Crowley had banished Aziraphale to the kitchen for several hours, suggesting he unpack a bit and try his hand at baking while the angel worked on a special surprise. Crowley had honestly expected to catch his love trying to peek in on his little secret, but to his delight he soon picked up the scent of freshly baked scones and apple pie wafting toward him from downstairs. The aromas made something in his chest clench tight. He made himself a promise then to always ensure their kitchen was well stocked with everything a fledgling baker could ever need to make a variety of delicious treats. 

Sometime well past sunset, Crowley finally returned to Aziraphale - who had been taking a walk through the garden by this point. “It’s ready,” he had said, and wove their fingers together to lead his dearest love upstairs to the bedroom. 

It was only a fraction of what Aziraphale owned, but Crowley had lined almost every inch of wall in bookshelves and lovingly filled them with all of his darling’s favorites. The most precious first editions were there, along with the books of prophecy, and all of those that he had managed to have signed by their authors in his travels. 

Their bed - modest in size because Crowley knew he would never desire space between them - was surrounded by the nostalgia and comfort of the books and a pair of bedside tables housing delicate Tiffany lamps. The gray sheets and comforter were a subtle nod to their ambiguous nature concerning Heaven and Hell. What little space was left in the room was decorated by blooming potted plants in a variety of beautiful colors, along with a pile of plush pillows pressed into the sitting window, should Aziraphale desire a more solitary spot to read in. 

Aziraphale had wandered through the room slowly, fingers brushing the spines of books and the petals of flowers. Eventually he sat himself gingerly down upon the edge of the bed, eyes downcast, hands wringing. Crowley ached to say something, anything, to break the silence, but he kept his lips firmly pressed together until Aziraphale looked up and rewarded him with a soft smile. 

“Come to bed, my love?” the blond had asked, overwhelmed tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

And Crowley had, happily. 

It wasn’t as though the move had miraculously solved all of their problems or erased the pains of the past. Aziraphale’s nightmares - of which he preferred not to speak - were only one example. As the weeks went on there were good days and bad ones. Sometimes there would be entire weeks of blissful, innocent domesticity. Aziraphale baked and read. Crowley gardened and learned to make his own wine, the human way. But sooner or later there would be one of the bad days. Aziraphale would imagine Heaven and Hell coming for them again and have a violent panic attack, locking himself in their cellar while he wept. Crowley would be working in the garden and feel suddenly, miserably certain that someday soon Aziraphale would lose himself and it would end in blood for one or both of them. Try as they might - and they  _ did  _ try so very hard - to keep moving forward, the horrors behind them always seemed to be breathing over their shoulders. 

There was a great deal of fear, a seemingly endless supply of pain. Neither seemed capable of convincing themselves that the other was here to stay, that this was to be their story from now on, to write as they willed. 

And some days it seemed as though that struggle would never end. Some days it felt that they two were far too broken, pieces lost and others made incompatible with age and pressure. 

Those days were horrible. They felt longer than all the others, practically never-ending. But they did end, sooner or later, every time, and when they did the two lovers would hold one another tight, tears mingling, hopes lifting once more. The future laid out before them, come what may. 

Crowley stood by the sliding glass doors that lead out to the garden, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. There wasn’t a single sound to announce a presence, but he felt it in the air, in the prickling of his own skin and the slight increase of the beat of his heart. He was smiling even before Aziraphale’s hands found him, wrapping around his waist to pull him close. He felt a little huff of breath against the back of his neck as his beloved nestled his nose into red waves and breathed deep. 

“If you’re going to make me dream of what I like best,” the blond murmured with a playful growl, “it’s cruel to allow me to awaken without you by my side.” He found his way through the wall of hair to nip playfully at Crowley’s throat. “Tease.”

Crowley chuckled. He wriggled within Aziraphale’s embrace until they were face-to-face and favored his love with an affectionate smile. “Deepest apologies,” he sighed, and knew the adoration on his face was as clear as his nose or eyes. “Shall we return to bed so that I can rectify my error?”

Something devilish flashed in Aziraphale’s eyes, but after a short moment’s hesitation he made a noncommittal sound and pressed his lips to Crowley’s shoulder as he pulled their bodies closer together. “Mmm...later, perhaps,” he breathed. “I think I rather fancy watching you garden today.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow as he nuzzled his face against fluffy blond curls. “Putting me to work, are you?” he teased, despite already having thought of working in the garden that day. A shift at his shoulder told him that his words had drawn a smile. 

“I do so enjoy watching the way your muscles move,” Aziraphale teased right back before kissing languidly up toward Crowley’s throat. “Manual labor suits you, dearest.”

Crowley tried and failed to hide the grin that crept onto his face. He was highly suspicious of how much actual gardening he was going to get done today, and wasn’t particularly fussed about it either way. He leaned his head to the side to give Aziraphale a little more to work with and made several lovely little noises of appreciation as warm lips lavished him with attention. He really didn’t want to ruin the mood, but had learned it was best to keep his love abreast of any and all information pertinent to them, in order to help regulate his sometimes severe anxiety. So it was with some reluctance that he carefully sighed, “Phanuel wants to visit soon.”

The pause was very short, but definitely noticeable. “And I suppose they want to bring the younglings along as well?” His voice was deceptively calm, but there was a clipped note of panic beneath it. 

Crowley banished his coffee mug to the sink and slowly wrapped his beloved in a warm, tight embrace. “Their note didn’t mention,” he said, honestly, “but I would imagine that is a possibility, yes.” He was very diligent in ensuring his hold on Aziraphale was firm, that he was radiating calm and love as he nuzzled his head against the other’s curls. “Say the word, and I’ll send a response, tell them you aren’t ready yet.”

Aziraphale’s body had gone noticeably tense, but some of that stiffness dissolved with Crowley’s words. His fingers - which had pressed rather sharply into Crowley’s lower back - now ran pleasantly up and down his spine while he allowed himself to consider. “Don’t…” he eventually decided, though the word came out a little shakily. “Not yet, anyway… Just- Just tell them to make sure we know when they’re coming, okay? In case I....need to cancel.”

Crowley felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes and had to fight to keep them from falling. This was big. Huge, really. Phanuel had wanted to introduce Aziraphale to the younglings he’d traded his wings for since they and Belial had officially taken over guardianship of them. Crowley was certain they thought it would be nice for Aziraphale to see where his sacrifice had gone, but he was unsurprised when the very mention of it sent his love into a panicked downward spiral. It was hardly surprising, really. The younglings may not have any memory of what had happened to them before, but they were, for all intents and purposes, the same angels that Aziraphale had tortured and murdered during his mindless campaign for revenge. The thought of coming face to face with them was surely a terrifying one for more than a few reasons. Therefore, Crowley had carefully initiated this particular conversation more than once over the past six months, and each time Aziraphale had expressed an unrelenting terror. 

The fact that he was even  _ entertaining _ the idea now was immense. Astounding. Magnificent. It made Crowley squeeze his dearest love even more tightly. 

“I’m so proud of you, my love....”

Aziraphale twitched, and then melted, more than a little happily, against Crowley. When he spoke again it was with a hint of a whimper. “I haven’t done it yet… Save your pride for when I go through with it.”

Crowley pulled back just enough to gaze into blue eyes - eyes that were darker than they had been for millennia, but were somehow lighter than they’d been these past few decades. “I won’t,” he argued. “My pride is not conditional like that, Aziraphale. I’m proud of you  _ now _ , and I won’t hesitate to express it.” He lifted a hand to stroke his fingers down along his love’s soft, porcelain cheek. “I am so, so proud of you.”

Those blue eyes blinked rapidly, fighting at the moisture that insisted on springing to them. Crowley could see the conflict on Aziraphale’s face, the desire - the  _ need _ \- to disagree, to argue, to fight back against any semblance of compliment. This was one of the most difficult concepts for the ethereal being who refused to label himself, this idea that he could be someone worth praising after all he had done… It would take a long time, Crowley knew; perhaps years, perhaps centuries. One didn’t simply forget about the kinds of things Aziraphale had both experienced and inflicted. He might  _ never  _ be able to effectively push those thoughts and feelings away. 

But Crowley would keep helping him, every single day for the rest of their lives, for the rest of time itself if that’s what it took. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale finally gasped, successfully fighting back the urge to verbally flog himself this time. “I love you so much, my dearest.”

It wasn’t a perfect life. It likely never would be, and it was all but guaranteed that there would be various surprise speed bumps along the road that lay ahead. But it was  _ theirs _ , and theirs alone, and Crowley would cherish every second of it to the very best of his ability. Just as he cherished the being in his arms, despite everything, despite anything that may come. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, pressing his lips to a soft, warm cheek and letting his eyes flutter closed. 

Silently, he added to himself:  _ I always have, and I always will, my love, my heart, my Aziraphale…  _

_ You’ll always be my angel.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!

**Author's Note:**

> Eeeeeeee.....What has happened to our poor angel and demon? :O (Honestly, nothing compared to what's GOING to happen...ke ke ke...)
> 
> Please let me know what you think! If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!


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